Memoir
by shoneaugen
Summary: Aragorn had a life before LOTR - this was it. [bookverse]
1. Part I :: To Imladris

_Year 2933 - autumn_

Elrond cast a look into the main courtyard of Imladris, feeling all too idle and expectant. Elladan and Elrohir had gone for a day and a half already, and he could yet call to mind the image of a half-dozen escorts riding out behind his sons across the Bruinen, their mounts' unshod hooves sloshing quietly through the ford's placid waters. He settled himself to go over the summer's harvest records, midafternoon sun lighting his quarters and highlighting dust motes mid-air in a manner more intriguing than he would have liked to admit. The founder of Imladris, after all, could be no child dazzled still by things so trivial... 

The clatter of hooves on stone brought him out of his thoughts and records, and he made his way out and down to the courtyard in time to witness both of his sons riding through the southern arch at the head of their company. Elrond waited, watching the remainder of the group ride in and dismount as Elladan and Elrohir went to the center of the group to help the fair-haired woman slip down the side of her horse, toddler held against her hip. 

"Welcome, Gilraen," Elrond greeted in the common tongue as the other elves dispersed to lead their horses off, Elladan and Elrohir included. Gilraen inclined her head in a reciprocal greeting, though unspoken and unsmiling. She set the child onto the ground where he grabbed one fistful of her skirts and stood at her side, great dark eyes fixed on Elrond. "I am sorry your arrival must be the result of such evil tidings." 

"As am I," she responded with a sad smile. "But I thank you for your hospitality, my lord Elrond." 

"There is no cause for your thanks," he said, stepping forward. "Your husband was ever an ally of Imladris." He looked down at the child, who shrank back a step, half-hidden behind Gilraen. Elrond crouched, a half-smile touching his features. It had been long since any children had run in Rivendell. "And you," he addressed to the curious gaze peeking up at him, "must be Aragorn." 


	2. Part II :: Breakfast

Elrond was awake the next morning before the sun was high, going over one of the older tomes he had found in the library at his desk. _It will need to be recopied soon or else crumble to dust,_ he thought in dismay, running one hand over the peeling binding. 

"_Ada_?"

He glanced over; Elladan stood in the doorway, dark hair unbraided and - porridge? - streaked on his robes, expression placid but a glint of sheepish amusement in his eyes. "Elladan? What is it?"

"Gilraen's son woke with the sun today and has been.. ah.. eating breakfast with Elrohir ever since."

"Ever since?" Elrond's eyebrows raised in mild confusion. "That's been at least two hours."

"Well - yes." A half-smile appeared on his face. "The child is hopeless with a spoon, _ada_. I fear that Elrohir wasn't as fortunate as I in staying clean while trying to feed the boy."

And it was at precisely that moment when Elrond heard something that either he had simply not noticed above the normal morning noise, or was just louder than it had been before. "Aii! Down, you goblin!" came a laughing cry from somewhere outside his room.

Elrond rose from his desk with an amused shake of his head, striding out the door and toward the dining hall, Elladan at his side. "Where is Gilraen?"

"She sleeps still."

Elrond nodded - he had expected no less from her, now both young mother and grieving widow. He stopped in his tracks upon entering the dining hall, looking on the scene within with a growing grin that matched Elladan's.

There, at the near end of the farthest table, young Aragorn sat on the tabletop with a bowl of porridge before him, bits of porridge in his mussed hair and all over his face, and yet more porridge speckling the front of his shirt. Dark eyes twinkling with patient humor, Elrohir was seated in a chair in front of the child, wearing almost as much breakfast as Aragorn with a porridge-covered spoon in hand. Neither looked ready to give in - Elrohir to the boy's refusal of breakfast, and Aragorn to the elf's offer thereof.

At the entrance of his father and brother, though, Elrohir buckled. "Ai, I give up! You, little one," he said pointedly to the gleeful Aragorn, "are _n'estel_. Hopeless. _Ada_, Elladan, are you come to save me from this horror?" The last was directed sportively at Elrond and Elladan, both still standing in the entranceway of the room.

"'Stel! 'Stel!"

"Yes, yes, _n'estel_," Elrohir replied to Aragorn, scooping the boy up with one arm as he deposited his spoon into the bowl and stood, shifting slightly so that both he and the boy faced Elrond and Elladan. "Brother, would you deny me some aid with this?"

"I would gladly deny you," Elladan replied mockingly, stepping forward to take the mostly-empty porridge bowl, still leaving Elrohir with an armful of toddler.

"'Rohir 'stel!"

Elladan let out a shout of laughter, reaching over to tousle the little one's dark hair lightly as he passed them to leave the bowl with the cooks. "He learns fast, brother! For you do look the more hopeless, being a grown elf and yet covered in breakfast."

Elrond could not hold back his quiet laughter then, one hand stretching out to pick at a larger clump of porridge from Aragorn's hair dislodged by Elladan's tousling. "Villains, the both of you, to be such influences on him," he chided laughingly before turning his focus on Aragorn, who was now quiet. The child had both hands firmly clenched around handfuls of Elrohir's hair. "I don't think you are so hopeless. Your father even had high hopes for you - Estel, you will be called, how does that sound?" The boy nodded fervently, sending bits of dried porridge flying. Elrohir winced slightly. "Estel, then. Would you like to take Elrohir and Elladan and go wash up before the day is over?" Another nod. "Go, then, and make sure that Elrohir especially gets all that porridge out of his hair."

Elrohir grinned again, keeping silent as he turned to leave the dining hall. He pressed his free hand to his heart in a teasing salute to his father before he left with Estel, passing Gilraen on the way in.

"Gilraen," Elrond greeted her pleasantly, watching the bemused expression on her face grow as she turned slightly to watch the porridge-covered Elrohir and Estel exit. "Will you join me for breakfast?"

----------------------------

"All right, Estel," Elrohir encouraged, "and this is.."

The sun was beginning to sink, casting the sky in wispy lavender-and-gold clouds, but the trees around them broke most of the wind. Estel was standing half-leaning on a silver birch's trunk with Elrohir crouched beside him, and after a moment of intense scrutiny of the tree he looked to Elrohir. "_Orn_?"

"Yes, it's a tree, but what kind?"

"Elrohir, don't push him so. The poor child is only two, and you're trying to teach him our language whilst Gilraen is still teaching hers." Elladan was stretched out on a branch overhead, watching the lesson lazily. "It's like as not that you're doing more harm than good."

"No law in Imladris forbids the learning of two languages," Elrohir shot back, looking up. "Just because you could only speak Sindarin until you were half a century grown--"

"_Brethil_," Estel piped up suddenly.

"_Brethil_! Silver birch. Very good, Estel. You see, Elladan, he's perfectly capable of learning both." Elrohir swept up the toddler in one arm, settling him against one shoulder as he peered up at Elladan. "Will you come down? Or shall I leave you here and return the boy to his mother without you?"

"And what, tell _ada_ that you were so vigilant over our _brilliant_ Estel that you lost me instead?" He dropped down, landing lightly on his feet with a rustling flurry of autumn leaves following him.

"Nay, I would tell him that you bravely sacrificed yourself to save Estel when a clump of mushrooms in the pine-woods suddenly turned into Orcs and attacked us."

"_Yrch_?"

Elladan raised both eyebrows, peering gravely down at Estel. "Indeed, _yrch_. Brother, I fear we may have a genius on our hands."

"A genius, compared to who? You?"

"Oh, most surely compared to me. After all, in the last hour you've managed to prove that he can speak all of six words in Sindarin, including his name and the four others you told him last night."

"He's but two years old!"

"I didn't mean it unkindly, Elrohir. But he's only a human." Elladan lapsed into Sindarin, gaze appraising upon Estel. "You needn't have such high hopes for him."

"And you needn't have such low ones," Elrohir retorted, still defiantly speaking in the common tongue -- though still in a conscientiously quiet tone. "Just because you're still bitter about anything that lies outside of Rivendell--"

"This has nothing to do with that," Elladan said in a dangerously even tone.

"Doesn't it?"

"Nothing."

"Then why do you stand there and act as if I were teaching a troll to shoot?" his brother demanded. "He's trying!"

"What does it matter if he tries?" Elladan said harshly. His gaze flickered down to Estel, who was still cradled in Elrohir's easy grasp, and he automatically lowered his voice. "Brother, do you ever think? Estel will be dead before the Age reaches its end. 'Twill not matter to anyone if he can speak Sindarin or Dwarvish or the black tongue of Mordor after he is gone. _He is not of our kind._"

"Elendil himself was only a Man," Elrohir countered.

"Estel is not Elendil."

"Said I that he was? I ask no great favor of you, to let me teach him what he may yet learn!"

"All I ask is that you not put all of your hopes in him."

"Then give the boy a chance!"

"Think you that he would still be in Rivendell if anyone here had decided not to give him a chance?"

"He is Arathorn's son," Elrohir said quietly, "and he deserves more than your father's hospitality."

Silence fell after he spoke, broken only by the hushed whisper of grounded leaves turning in the wind. Distantly, birdsong chimed and faded, and at length Elladan's hands flexed at his sides in exasperation.

"Fine. I will," he said abruptly. Elrohir blinked at his sudden assent. "I am."

"You-- you'll give him a real chance."

"Yes."

"You will." There was almost a question in Elrohir's voice, an undercurrent of doubt echoed in the disbelief of his expression.

Elladan sighed. "_Yes_, Elrohir. I've already said I will. What more must I do, swear to you that I'll dedicate the next century to raising him to become the king of Men?"

Elrohir raised one eyebrow, but the skeptical twist of his mouth faded to be replaced by a tentative half-smile. "That would be amusing, to say the least."

"Traumatic."

"For Estel, that is."

"After he's woken up, perhaps. I do believe that your prodigy is drooling on your shoulder, brother."

Elrohir looked down at Estel, who had apparently fallen asleep and was, as Elladan had stated, leaving a wet mark on his shoulder. He sighed but didn't move the child, only shrugging mildly. "There are things worse that could come out of his mouth at this age."

"Yes, well. At least he's two. Any younger and we might have had to refuse him safety here after all." Elladan broke into a rare grin, reaching over to brush Estel's hair away from his face. "Arwen was such a terror when she was teething."

"Just don't tell her that." And Elrohir turned, nodding toward the house. "Shall we go?"

"We shall." Elladan chuckled, setting off beside Elrohir. "If only to save you from the indignity of being seen with spit soaking your arm."


	3. Part III :: Swimming

_Year 2936 - late summer_

Days and months passed more quickly with Estel - soon it was as if he had always been in Imladris, so seamlessly was he incorporated into daily life. For Gilraen, watching her son grow up in such a sanctuary as Rivendell was a relief much needed during her mourning for Arathorn; for Elrond, having the peals of childish laughter to interrupt his work was pleasant enough distraction from his own grief and the loneliness that had plagued him ever since Celebrian had sailed away, all the more so when Arwen had left to Lorien. Elladan and Elrohir took to the child predictably well, finding in him a little brother that the Evenstar, though sterner than her looks provided, had never made. 

"No, you must not flail like that," Elrohir chided patiently, one hand easily holding up Estel in the water as the boy - now five years old, dark hair elven-long and braided as such - tried to float. The sun was already high overhead, gleaming gold-bright over the Bruinen's trickling waters and warming the ground beside, where Elladan sat, nimble fingers fletching arrows while he watched the other two. All were still fully clothed, despite two being in the water - Estel, in his excitement, had slipped on the rockier bank as soon as they'd gotten to the ford and fallen into the water. Elrohir had dived in after him to fish the boy out before he drowned. 

Naturally, it had turned into a swimming lesson. 

"If I don't move, how can I _swi_-- blrbbblb!" Estel sputtered, dipping back underwater, and Elrohir quickly set a supporting hand beneath Estel again, propping his head up above the surface. 

"You must learn to float before you swim, Estel, unless you plan to swim as well as a rock. No - don't hold your breath. Breathe. Relax." 

"I am!" 

Elladan chuckled from the shore, setting down another arrow to the growing pile at his side. "I've seen dwarven axes less stiff than you, little brother," he called. 

"Do not fight the water," Elrohir encouraged, gently bobbing the boy up and down in the water. "It will accept you if you let it. Relax." 

Estel muttered something that Elladan could not hear over the sounds of the ford, though Elrohir laughed. And Elladan watched, tolerantly amused and approving, as the boy floated out of Elrohir's grasp. "Look! Elladan, Elrohir! I'm floating! I'm--" 

Elrohir sloshed forward through the water to pull Estel upright again, shaking his head with a grin as the child spat water. "Estel, orc-brain - give it a rest for awhile. Come, let's eat and dry off. We'll try again later. Brother, you have not yet eaten all our lunch, have you?" he called over to Elladan as he stepped out of the water, Estel held firmly under one arm. 

"Not yet, but if you two leave me alone with these arrows and the food much longer, I might." 

"Suppose we give you some company, then." And Elrohir sat down, depositing Estel on the ground between him and his brother. Elladan set aside his fletching materials and grabbed instead the hamper containing the food they had brought, while Elrohir wrung out his wet hair; Estel, watching, imitated the movement, though the water he brought forth simply dripped onto his already-soaked clothes. Plates of food were passed around, and the trio ate. Estel, between bites of food, rambled cheerfully on about everything that had happened to him in the last week that neither Elladan nor Elrohir had been witness to - that was to say, not much. 

"And Erestor is so boring! He was reading aloud yesterday again - the Return of something --" 

"The Noldor," Elladan supplied. 

"The Return of the Noldor, yes, and I nearly fell asleep! He just goes on, and on, and on," Estel's voice briefly dropped to a bland monotone, though his eyes still sparkled with humor, "like he's never been happy about anything before!" 

"Insolent little elfling," Elrohir chuckled, tugging lightly on one of Estel's haphazard braids. "Perhaps you should be taught to read for yourself, then." 

"You'll teach me to read? Really?" 

"Not we!" A grin spread across Elladan's face. "If 'twere up to us to teach you, you'd never learn. Ada might teach you, or Glorfindel, or even Erestor." 

"Ai, not Erestor! Why can you not teach me?" 

"Little brother, we ride out to hunt Orcs too often, now that winter approaches. You would learn too little from us while we are home in Imladris." 

"Yrch!" Estel's eyes lit up. "Can I come with you?" 

"When you're but a little bigger," Elladan and Elrohir chorused - it was the standard answer to more than half of the boundless questions Estel asked, and always resulted in the same impatient sigh and faintly sullen look from the boy. "Don't pout so," Elladan said gently. "You will come with us one day when you are ready." 

"And 'til then, we will regale you with our stories of such hunts when we return," Elrohir added, leaning back on the sun-warmed ground. 

"All right," Estel finally conceded, stretching out on the ground as well, always ready to do as Elrohir did. "Can we sleep now?" 

"Just for a little while," Elladan replied, settling to stretch out with Elrohir's leg as his pillow. "Later, we'll teach you how to swim instead of just float." 


	4. Part IV :: Lessons

_Year 2937 - spring_

"This is torture," Estel muttered, hunched over a blank book with pen in hand as he peered over the ancient copy of the text he was supposed to be recopying. 

"Wait 'til you have seen more than books to classify torture," Glorfindel drawled, settled into a chair not too far away, another book in his lap. He was reading, not copying. "Had I known you'd thought the Return of the Noldor was so intriguing, I'm sure Elrond himself would have requested your help in recopying it." 

"It wasn't intriguing! It was boring!" Estel sent a baleful glare at Glorfindel, which the golden-haired elf ignored. 

"Yes, but you listened to it long enough to decide it was boring, which implies some interest. _Write_, child." 

"What'll we do after I finish?" 

"That remains to be seen. At the rate that you're writing, Estel, we won't have to worry about doing anything else anytime soon." 

"This is _scribes'_ work, though!" Estel still had yet to put down so much as a single word on the paper. 

"The right weapons are wielded at the right time. Just now, you're too little to wield anything heavier than a pen and book." After a pause, which was only filled by the sound of Estel's grumbling and reluctantly slow writing, Glorfindel added, "When you are done with the first four pages, we will go down to the stables." 

"Really?" 

"Really. Get to work, child." 

---------- 

An hour and a half later, four pages of the empty book had been filled in childish scribble, and Glorfindel and Estel were on their way to the stables. The former walked slowly to accomodate the six-year old's shorter legs; as they neared the stable proper, Estel broke into a light-footed run, stopping at the entrance to wait impatiently for Glorfindel. The elf fought to hide a grin. "Come, then, shall we tack up Thalion?" he asked as he ushered the boy in, bringing out the gentle old bay pony. 

"I can't. Elladan says I'm too short." 

"Well - yes," Glorfindel was forced to admit, looking down at Estel, "you are, I suppose. Do you know how to, though?" A nod from the dark-haired boy. "Good. I will tack Thalion for you, but you must tell me how to do it - the exact same way you would." 

It took less time to finish than Glorfindel had thought it would, but then, any brother of Elladan's and Elrohir's _should_, at the very least, know how to saddle a horse. Glorfindel had taught the twins himself how to do the very same thing. And Estel seemed to either have memorized every word and movement the twin elves had taught him or nearly so, having unerringly corrected Glorfindel's testing 'mistakes'. That done, the elf boosted Estel into the saddle, noting with approval his posture. "All right. Wait here until I tack up Naroth." He stepped into his horse's stall with his saddle and bridle, quickly adjusting buckles and straps even as he heard the faint sound of hooves leaving the stable. With a rueful grin, he finished, then swung himself onto the horse to go find Estel. 

It didn't take long. The boy was still within the clearing before the stable, trying to urge old Thalion to a trot. The pony, bridleless, refused to do so, standing at the side of the clearing and munching contentedly on one of the greener patches of spring grass. Glorfindel smiled to see it, turning Naroth toward the shorter pair. 

"Your brothers have taught you how to ride?" 

"Without reins!" Estel boasted, chin jutting out proudly. Glorfindel laughed, collecting his own reins to look down at boy and grazing pony. 

"On such a fiesty beast as Thalion, that is indeed a fine feat. And have Elladan and Elrohir told you why you must learn to ride without reins as well as with them?" 

Two hours passed with a long lesson through the pine woods of Imladris on fighting from horseback, complete with dramatic demonstrations on Glorfindel's part and audience paricipation on Estel's, usually in the form of Estel trying the same movements as Glorfindel and forgetting to guide his placid pony, who would then take him straight to the nearest clump of grass. It was nearing sunset when they had just crossed through the main courtyard - Thalion, looking as bored as an aged pony could, suddenly stopped, tossing his head and letting out a shrill whinny. There was an answering one in the distance, accompanied by the faint thunder of hooves. Glorfindel frowned, reining in Naroth as he looked down toward the northern arch, and suddenly heeled his horse into a run. "Fetch your father!" he ordered Estel over his shoulder, quickly rounding a bend and disappearing from sight down the path. 

The boy hurried to do so, leaving Thalion at the edge of the courtyard - he knew the old pony well enough to know that the smallest patch of grass would keep him sated for hours - and took off at a run for Elrond's quarters, bursting inside the door in a flurry of russet robes. "Ada! Glorfindel says you have to come--" Elrond was already on his feet, striding to the door. Estel followed him back down to the courtyard, hurrying to keep up with his foster-father's pace. 

Just then, three horses came clattering into the courtyard, only two bearing riders. Elladan was astride his chestnut, one arm stretched behind him with the reins to Elrohir's riderless grey mount - he dismounted even before the horses had stopped, leaving the animals to the groom who had stepped forward. And behind Elladan rode in Glorfindel, grim-faced, holding a limp and bloodied Elrohir in the saddle before him. 


	5. Part V :: Brotherhood

"Elrohir!" Estel cried, running forward and just missing being trampled under Naroth's hooves as Glorfindel slid out of the saddle with the dark-haired elf. Elladan came forward at once, slinging one of his twin's arms over his shoulders as Glorfindel did the same, and Elrond went with them to help Elrohir inside. The courtyard emptied as soon as it had been filled, leaving only Estel, bewildered, and Glorfindel's horse. 

Reason dictated that he take Naroth back to the stable, and he did so, leaving the horse with the groom there and returning to the courtyard to find Thalion still grazing at the edge. It took considerably more effort to lead the obstinate pony back, but when he finished, there was still no sign of his foster-father, brothers, or Glorfindel. 

So he sought out his mother in her room, sniffling in both indignance and concern for Elrohir. "It is all right," Gilrael soothed him, settling him on her lap as she deftly took out the braids in his hair, smoothing out the tangles beneath them before quickly plaiting them back. It had not been her idea for her son to about with the hair-dress of an elf when he knew he was a human, but Estel's adoration of Elladan and Elrohir had said otherwise, and she had not protested it. "Elrohir is strong, and lord Elrond is skilled in healing. Do not fret." 

"But he was all bloody, mama!" 

"So were you, when you fell out of that tree last summer and knocked out your tooth. You healed; so will Elrohir." 

"Oh." 

"Yes, 'oh,'" she teased him gently, straightening his robe. 

"Does he hurt as much as I did when I fell out of the tree?" 

"I suspect he might." 

"Can I go and see him, then?" 

"Wait a little longer," she advised, "to give him some time to rest and lord Elrond time to work." 

".._now_ can I go see him?" 

Gilraen laughed, lightly pushing him off her lap in the direction of the door. "Off with you, imp. And if Elrond tells you to do something, obey." Estel ran into the corridor, all pleased smiles and mussed-again robes, and Gilraen watched him go with a fondly sad smile. 

The door to Elladan's and Elrohir's room was still shut, and Estel had learned early on that if doors were shut, he was to keep out. It wasn't often that he was closed out, so he accepted the rule willingly enough, and now he sat outside, back against the wall to wait for someone to come out - he could hear movement enough inside - or, at the very least, for someone to open the door. It took awhile - he was nodding off to drowsy, upright sleep before the door creaked inward and Elladan stepped out, accompanied by Glorfindel. 

"--have to take a few of the sentries, at least, and round up the horses and loot from the Orcs' camp," Elladan was saying in a clipped tone. Estel jerked awake with a start, surprising himself as well as the two elves. 

"You're going again?" he queried, slight petulance brought on by tiredness. "Can I go, too, Elladan? Please?" 

"For the hundredth time, Estel, no!" Elladan snapped, sidestepping quickly to avoid treading on the boy's fingers. "By the Valar, will you never stop asking and making yourself such a nuisance?" 

Estel drew back, stung by Elladan's sharp tone. He was preparing himself for some comeback when Elrohir's voice came forth from within the room. "Make you ready to leave, brother. I fear I shall have to part you from Estel's valiant company by requesting him stay with me." Estel sent the exasperated Elladan a triumphant look, then rose from his seat to hurry into the room, hearing Glorfindel's and Elladan's departing footsteps behind him. 

Elrond. too, was preparing to leave the room when Estel came in, slipping out the door with a faint smile at his foster-son. Estel barely paid him any heed, scampering instead to the foot of the bed to peer at the elf atop it. "Elrohir?" 

"Estel?" Elrohir drawled, tone mockingly grave, but the smile on his face erased the jibe in his voice. He glanced over, propped up on a pair of pillows; the intricate coverlet beneath him was slightly streaked with dirt, but he had changed into an older set of tan robes and didn't look much the worse for the wear. "What think you of staying home to listen to me tell tales of other Orc-hunts while Elladan and the others go out?" 

"That would be all right, I suppose," the boy replied after a moment's thought, scrambling up onto the foot of the bed. "As long as you tell me about your last hunt, too." 

Elrohir chuckled. "We'll start there, then. You see, Elladan and I have long ridden out with the rangers of the north to hunt Orcs. When we left four days ago, it was our intent to meet with them to pursue a band of Orcs going north, past Langwell. Instead, just Elladan and I came across a smaller band near Carrock, past sunset." He paused to shift slightly on the bed, grimacing, and Estel scooted aside to vacate more room at the foot of the bed and sitting off to the side. "There were probably.. twenty, twenty-five of them." 

"And only two of you?" Estel was rapt, wide-eyed - and still asking questions. 

"Yes, brother. Two of us." Elrohir grinned. "So we decided to ambush them, kill them before heading to Langwell. But sadly, fortune was not with us that eve. One of their rabble spotted us, and we were forced to attack outright." 

"Why didn't you run?" 

"Elfling, we would have led them straight back to Imladris had we done that. Besides, it is not in my nature or Elladan's to flee from such vile creatures. Nor should it be in yours, should it ever come to that. --so! We fought, yes. And we managed to kill the Orcs, every last stinking one." Estel was still hanging on to every word, stretching out onto his stomach on the bed to listen. "One of the last, though - it had its spear, and I my bow, and it so happens that he threw his spear at me just before I loosed an arrow." Elrohir shifted aside, and Estel scrambled up the bed to his usual storytelling position - leaning against Elrohir's shoulder, albeit more gingerly now. "So it shot me, and I shot it - and it's just as lucky that I killed it but did not, myself, die." 

Estel's thoughts of death were limited to the faraway realms of in-a-long-time - his father's death was more of a story, like that of the elven kings of old, than a conceptualization of his own mortality. As it was, stories held far more interest for him than death. "But what happened then?" 

"Well, 'twas not a bad cut - just long. I thought to just leave it, since the spear had not been tipped in poison, and helped Elladan kill the rest and pile their carcasses to burn - a word to the wise, little brother, do not do as I did. Elladan was well-nigh furious at me when I fell off my horse like a sack of stones." 

Dark eyes widened again, and Elrohir briefly wondered if it was natural for human eyes to open that large. "You - you fell off your horse?" 

"Ay, right as we rode before the Bruinen." 

"And Elladan was angry?" 

"Extremely so. I think he'd've liked to cuff me for leaving the wound unbound, if I had not already been unconscious." 

"So why was he mad at me, then?" 

Elrohir was taken aback for a moment, blinking in bemused silence, trying to think of a time when Elladan had deliberately shown his ire to the youngster. "What? When?" 

"Just before he left now." A sniffle or two punctuated Estel's words. "Outside your room." 

"Oh, Estel," Elrohir sighed, wrapping an arm about Estel's shoulders and pulling him in for a light embrace. "Elladan was not angry at you, fear not. He was only worried for you. He would not have both of his brothers injured in a day." 

"He called me a nuisance," Estel sniffed, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand. 

"'Twas not meant unkindly. Estel, if you are ever a nuisance, rest assured that more than just Elladan will tell you so. _I_ will tell you so, most firmly, if ever you should become one." 

"Really?" 

"Really." Elrohir smiled gently. "Now. Where was I in my story?" 

No more than ten minutes later, Elrond came into the room to check on both his son and his foster-son; he smiled when he saw the sleeping Estel curled up under Elrohir's arm, and left again, so the only sounds remaining inside were the deepening breaths of slumber under the balm of Ithil's light. 


	6. Part VI :: Patience

_Year 2946 - summer_

The years passed quickly, even for Estel; summers flitted by with lessons in archery and knife-fighting, winters with stories and songs in the Hall of Fire. Gilraen watched her son grow more elven and yet more human by the day, long-haired but still sun-darkened more than any true elf. His admiration for his brothers and mentors did not dim as he aged - if anything, he took his leave of her more to follow Elladan and Elrohir, or occasionally even Glorfindel, when the older elf permitted it. He was now at the ripe age of fifteen, accompanying his brothers almost everywhere they went as a triplet to the twins. 

That did not mean that he was quite as able as they, though. 

"Little brother, I've seen starlings stronger than you," teased Elladan, stretched out lazily along a sturdy branch some ten feet or so above Estel. Estel himself was standing at the trunk of the tree, trying to bend Elrohir's old recurved bow down far enough to string it. So far, he was failing. 

"And I'll bet when you were only fifteen you could string a monstrous thing like this," Estel shot back, letting go of the top nock with a sigh of resignation. The bow, hardly bent at all despite his efforts, straightened again. 

"No, but at least I didn't leave tracks like a wounded Orc." 

"Of course you did, Elladan," Elrohir called down from higher up in the tree. He was all but hidden from view if the viewer was looking upward, green tunic and russet-brown leggings fading in between branch and leaf. "Fifteen? You were no more than as if Estel had been.. what, six?" 

"Eight, at least!" 

"Ha!" Estel picked up the bow again, trying in vain to pull it down as he stretched the string upwards. "It's no use, Elrohir. I can't string it." 

An acorn, aimed by elven fingers, hurtled down to connect with considerable force for such a small projectile against the top of the boy's head; Elrohir grinned and shifted, a sudden rustle of movement in the leaves as Estel glanced upward with a scowl of mock indignity. "Nothing is ever useless, Estel. As I recall, you said the same thing when Glorfindel was trying to teach you how to track." 

"Of course, all you ended up tracking was yourself," muttered Elladan as he draped an arm over the branch next to his perch, trying to get more comfortable. "Kind of hard not to, between the footprints you left and your complete inability to track." 

"I learned!" Estel defended himself, dragging down the bow's tip another inch. 

"Only after an entire summer staring at the ground!" 

"As I was saying," Elrohir cut in with a laugh, "'tis not useless, brother. But it will not come to you so quickly. Be patient." 

"Easy - for--" Estel grunted, bracing one knee against the bow's belly as he pulled it down further. "--an _elf_ to - say." 

"Nonsense. Your mother tells you the same thing every time you go to her about wanting to learn who your fa--" 

Elladan was cut off by a handful of acorns dropping onto his head and Elrohir's sharp look. Estel, still intent on mastering the bow, missed the silent exchange. "If this isn't useless, it's hopeless, then." The bow creaked as he plied it downward again. "By the Valar, this has to be the stiffest bow I've ever _touched_ in my life--" An ominous crunching noise came from the weapon as he yanked it down further still. Elladan and Elrohir had, in the interim, discreetly moved back closer against the tree, watching the struggle. 

CRACK! With a final tug of Estel's, the top third of the bow broke raggedly off from the rest, sending a four-inch long fragment of splintered wood flying up at the twins. Elladan moved aside slightly to let the shard pass, and Elrohir's hand reached out with elven swiftness to catch it before it could succumb to gravity again and hit anything else on the way back down. Estel stood below, aghast, broken bow still in hand. "Ai! Elladan, Elrohir, are you all right? The bow--" he trailed to a stop, at a loss for words. 

"The bow broke," Elladan finished for him as Elrohir lightly tossed the piece of bow back down to land by Estel's feet. "As we knew it would, if you pushed it too far. Brother, do you think we jest when we tell you that things such as that will not come quickly?" 

Estel at least had the grace to flush slightly, muttering some response indecipherable to Elrohir's hearing, though Elladan laughed and swung down from his branch, landing on the ground with a soft thud. "No, don't worry. The thing was ancient anyway. Not that it was entirely the bow's age that caused it to break." 

Elrohir, too, slid down from branch to branch until he was back in the grass. "Even you should know that a stable bow would not make such a racket just to be strung, Estel," he reproved mildly, albeit with a smile. "Though perhaps it's for the best. I was hoping to get a new one at the summer fair, anyway." 

Estel brightened immediately, attention brought off the bow since Elladan and Elrohir didn't seem angry. "Did you hear about Melpomaen's new bows? 'Tis said he only has three this year, but they're his finest yet - two to trade, and one to gift to the winner of the midsummer hunt." 

"The envy of all Imladris," Elladan chuckled, "I'm sure. Mean you to join us in the hunt again this year, Estel? I fear you own nothing yet that would equal one of Melpomaen's bows in a trade." 

"You've still another fortnight before the hunt to train," Elrohir added, one arm stretching up to run his hand over the leaves above his head. 

Estel only shrugged in response, lifting the bow off the ground. "I may. Shall we take the bow home, then?" 

"Only if it befits you to learn patience before you break anything of mine." 

"Elladan!" 

"What?" 

Estel was laughing. "Stop! You two bicker like a couple wedded and regretted." 

"We do not!" the two elves protested in unison. Elrohir ignored Estel's point-proven smirk and spun the youth around so that he was facing the direction back to Imladris proper. "We'll give you a head start. If you can get back to your rooms without being caught by either Elladan or me, I'll get you one of Melpomaen's bows at the fair." Estel promptly fled, bow still in hand, disappearing with a moment into the sun-dappled woods. 

Elladan watched him go with a grin, shaking his head. "Do you think that was really fair, bribing him like that? I mean, really, Elrohir. One of _Melpomaen's_ bows? Can you even get one from him?" 

"He still owes me for that last decade I took over his turn on watch." 

"A century of watches might pay for one of his bows. With a decade, you'll be lucky to get the string." 

"I'll find some way to, brother. If Estel ever gets back home uncaught, that is. Do you think we've given him long enough of a start?" 

"I'd say it's been long enough. Let's go!" 


	7. Part VII :: Midsummers

"This is folly, little brother," Elladan warned, passing over Estel's quiver. The rustle of feather-fletching rasped quietly as Estel deftly slipped the straps over his head, checking buckles and tails briefly. "You'll never manage." 

"I've taken the dawn watch before at the ford," Estel tossed back, lightly passing his longbow from hand to hand as Elladan's horse snorted, ears flicking back at the movement. 

"Yes, and you were all but walking in your sleep the next day." 

"I'll be fine!" 

"Of course you will," Elladan said dubiously, looking down at the boy. Even at nearly midnight, the midsummer air was thick with humidity, sluggish evening breeze doing little for the closeness of the atmosphere. The cloying heat even seemed to muffle the sound of the Bruinen gurgling lazily downstream. "If you end up losing the hunt again tonight, don't say I didn't warn you." 

"I'll sleep during the day, before the hunt," Estel compromised, waving Elladan off with an idle hand. "Go back. I'll be fine." 

A rueful grin broke out over the elf's face. "You'd better be able to do fine after all that archery practice Glorfindel put you through all week," he admitted. "Guard well, little brother. Someone will come to relieve you in the morning." 

"Sleep well," and Estel turned from the departing Elladan to scan over the rocky bank outlying past the ford. All was quiet, and Ithil's crescent shone brightly enough to reflect brokenly in the water, illuminating the land in opalescent silver. With a sigh, Estel leaned back against the comforting solidity of an oak tree, eyes roaming all across the ford for any movement. 

Six hours later, he was seated on the ground at the tree's trunk, avidly dissecting a piece of a feather that had come apart from the rest of the fletching on one arrow in between sporadic glances up to check the land across the Bruinen. He had just pulled the arrow out from the quiver, taking apart the rest of the feather since the arrow would not fly straight with misaligned fletching anyway, when a sudden movement caught his eye. In a flash he was on his feet, a new arrow pulled to his bow as he squinted at the cluster of horses and riders that was approaching. 

_Fear not, Estel. We bring no evil behind us, and bear none in ourselves. _

It took him a moment to realize that the fell voice was in his mind, not his straining ears. He jerked his bow upward despite the reassurance, kept it aimed at the group as they slowed on the opposite bank of the ford: three grey mounts and one as white as Ithil herself. It was only when he recognized the riders as elves - Lorien elves, judging by their garb - that he lowered his bow, saluting to the foremost rider. The quartet walked their horses through the water, coming to a halt near Estel's tree. "_Anna suilad,_" Estel greeted them politely. 

"Our greetings in return," replied one of the elves, dismounting - he stood perhaps a hand taller than Estel, silver hair long and plaited curiously down his back, sharp eyes blue-silver'd in the light of the rising sun. "I am Haldir of Lorien. These are my brothers, Rumil and Orophin--" the two others mounted on grey horses, indeed similar in appearance to Haldir, nodded in turn. "--and the lady Galadriel." 

Estel inclined his head respectfully, lowering his bow fully. "I am called Estel," he responded formally, feeling unduly awkward and particularly graceless. His gaze strayed to the Lady, who bore a slightly amused, if serene, expression upon her luminous face; he wondered if the formalities of introductions were necessary, if it had indeed been her voice inside his head. "If you keep to the path, you will be taken to the house of Elrond." 

Haldir nodded, mute thanks, and remounted his horse, leading the other three down the path Estel had pointed down. An hour later as Estel was still lost in musing over what the Lorien elves' purpose might be in Imladris, the relief sentry dropped out of the tree behind him, startling the boy into spinning, bow raised again only to lower it with a sheepish smile. The elf laughed and waved him off; he hurried back down the path, grateful to be allowed to go and sleep. 

When he woke up again, the sun was casting looming, pale shadows across his room, and Elrohir was shaking him by the shoulder. "Estel!" 

"What?" he said groggily, sitting up and rubbing a hand across his face, trying to clear his sleep-bleary eyes. 

"Get up, you goblin! The hunt starts in less than an hour and you have not yet even eaten!" 

"_What?_" 

Elrohir backed away as Estel rolled out of bed in one motion, grabbing a clean tunic and hurriedly changing before reaching for a comb. Elrohir swiftly took it from him with a sigh, turning the boy around and deftly picking out the tangles in his hair by hand before twisting it into a simple point braid while Estel hurriedly fastened his belt, and the straps across his chest that held the sheaths for his knives. There were no weapons used in the hunt, but no one ever ventured forth alone and unarmed. "Go, now. Elladan is in the dining hall, waiting with food. Eat fast - meet us near the clearing in the pine-woods. Hurry!" 

When Estel reflected on it later, he thought that if he hadn't eaten at such a speedy pace, Elladan might have just shoved the bread and apple down his throat in order to get him moving faster. In any case, he was still eating when he and Elladan left, feet long accustomed to the oft-used path and taking him unfailingly to the clearing. Late as they were, they were still not the last, and found Elrohir in the throng waiting before the hunters and the hunted were split into two groups. Estel yawned as he stepped to join the other hunted; he had slept for less than two hours, all told. 

"Hunters!" a strong voice cried over the general murmur of noise, cutting through easily and bringing all attention to one golden-haired figure standing between the two groups. Estel gaped to see the lady Galadriel in a long white gown, light wool cloak askew on her shoulders with her bright hair spilling over it. "And hunted! Welcome. Hunters - you know well the rules, but I will repeat them, for the newer recruits. The hunt lasts until first light tomorrow. You may roam the depths of bountiful Imladris's forests, but you must go unseen! For each who is espied by one of the hunters, a ribbon will be betokened to him in the chosen color of the hunter. 

"If there is one recruit who returns with no ribbons - _if_," she repeated with a merry laugh, joined by several of the hunters. "They shall be awarded by generous Melpomaen, who has offered one of his prize bows as reward!" She paused as those surrounding the grinning Melpomaen in the hunters' group roused a short cheer. "And if none return ribbonless, then the prize shall go to the hunter whose color is seen most among the hunted - or even the other hunters. 

"I see no further reason to tarry, then. Be off!" the Lady cried, and the hunted streamed into the forest, casting a last few furtive glances about before melding into the shade and trees. Estel moved off in a silent walk, keeping his path at the stone-littered edges of a stream in the woods before breaking into a light-footed run toward the forests limning the Bruinen's shore. 

Noon found him lying flat on a broad maple branch, well-nigh invisible from the ground amid wood the same color of his tunic and leggings and the shadows that hid his dark hair. He watched several of the others from his group pass beneath him; like him, they moved silently or almost so, barely disturbing the leaves and grass beneath their feet. Unfortunately, even those tiny disturbances proved enough to allow them to be tracked, and caught, as Estel watched. One of the sentries he did not know - a hunter - went past, too, missing him, and Estel grinned in delight at the effectiveness of his hiding place. 

Suddenly, a flutter of motion caught his eye, and he sat up on the branch to find a grey ribbon dangled before his face. He groaned, reaching over to take the ribbon and knot it on his belt, and looked up into the unsmiling blue-grey eyes of Haldir, one branch higher than him in the tree. Estel's face fell - there went his chances at the prize bow. 

"You linger too long," the elf said, by way of explanation. "The branch you rest on dips lower than it should, from its growth. Do not stay so long in one place, and keep an eye to your back." Estel nodded, looking over at the branch - had it really dipped lower? - before looking back toward Haldir 

The branch above him held nothing but leaves, not a one of them set to motion by other movement. Estel stared for a moment, before sliding out of the tree to the ground - he froze for a moment, glancing around to make sure that his presence would go unnoticed, and set off quietly through the foliage. 

By the time darkness had fallen, rendering the air cooler if not less sticky, Estel had recieved no fewer than three ribbons - the one from Haldir, another from Elladan after a quiet but short chase through the wood trying to escape him, and one last from Galdor. Haldir had tapped him on the shoulder on two other occasions, leaving him with an unsettled feeling of inadequacy but no further silver ribbons. Estel spent the last few hours of the hunt creeping back toward the pine-woods, crossing from the sheltering eaves of one tree to another, motionless and watching for any telltale movement in between, and trying not to fall asleep in his stiller moments. 

Haldir caught him again just as the sun crested over the treetops, filtered golden light straining to light the depths of the forest. The Lorien elf regarded him rather solemnly, saying after a moment of silence, "Watch more carefully where you put your feet. Dead leaves make more noise than living grass, and leave more marks of your passage." And for the first time, Estel saw a brief smile cross the silver-haired elf's face. "Come. The hunt is over. Others will be returning soon." 

Within another hour of the sunrise, the clearing was filled again, this time many of its occupants sporting colorful ribbons on their belts. Estel missed most of the gathering, dozing off with his back to a tree's trunk, knees drawn to his chest and head resting atop. Elladan woke him long enough to get his ribbons and take them to the tally being counted up for each of the hunters, and Estel went back to sleep. He stirred once as a cheer went through the group, and he thought he caught a glance of silver hair in the center - he did not know whose - before fading back to slumber. 

He woke again as the sun was beginning its slant into the west again, and the clearing was busy with light-hearted activity. He groaned at he stood, his side aching where a gnarled root had been digging into it for some hours, and made his way over toward the center of the field where a pair of deer were roasting. Elladan and Elrohir were among those tending the food, and as he approached an elf pressed a mug of mulled wine into his hands, earning a tired grin from the boy and a lift of his drink. 

"Estel!" Elrohir cried, beckoning the boy over with a laugh. "You have slept through too much, but not the food!" 

"Of course not the food," Elladan teased, taking a sip of his wine with a nod to Estel before returning to a heated discussion with two of the recruits. 

"Did either of you win?" Estel asked eagerly, setting aside his mug - thirsty as he was, he had found out long ago that elven wine was rather potent to humans and most detrimental to him if he wanted to keep his thoughts in order. 

"No, of course not. Here, watch the deer for a moment - I must find Galdor and speak with him," Elrohir explained, pulling Estel over to take his position at the spit over the fire. Estel obliged with a grin, keeping the spot moving with one hand as he joined Elladan's talk, now changed to how he had caught one of the new sentries. 

He was pulled out of the conversation by a light tap on his shoulder that should have, by all means, been familiar by then. Haldir stood before him, and he hurriedly excused himself from Elladan and the gathering of elves to turn to the Lorien elf, wide-eyed. 

"I saw that you did not fare badly this hunt," Haldir said, low voice lilting in amusement. "Though perhaps it was too exhausting for you to stay awake through the tally?" 

Estel flushed, giving the spit another turn. "No, I mean-- I was-- this morning.." 

Haldir shook his head slightly, and - was that a fleeting grin on his face? Estel couldn't tell, and in the next instant it was gone, replaced by the elf's usual somber expression. "I had heard you'd broken a bow, two sevendays past." 

The boy turned a darker shade of red, ducking his head with a rueful grin of affirmation. 

"You surely have need of a new bow, then." Estel looked up at Haldir, not quite so red, and looking somewhat bemused as the elf held out a beautifully carved, dark-wooded recurved bow. "I trust that you will not break another." 

When Estel looked up from the bow now in his free hand, Haldir was gone again, lost among the other revelling elves. And he could only stare in amazement when he saw the stylized leaf carved into the belly of the bow: Melpomaen's insignia, etched into all bows of his creation. 

Elrohir came back to the fires to find Estel running his hands over the bow, entranced. And-- 

"Ai, you troll! You're letting the deer burn!" 

------------------------------- 

An arrow whistled through the air, just nicking the edge of a strip of willow bark dangling from a branch -- then another, and another. The third split the willow wand down the center, and Estel lowered his bow with an indulgent half-smile, running one hand over the polished wood before he jogged into the copse of trees to retrieve the arrows. He found the first, then abruptly paused; there was noise overhead. 

"Yes, Estel, I know you can hear me," came a familiar drawl, and after a moment Elrohir dropped to the ground from a tree branch, grinning. "What, are you going to shoot me?" 

The boy lowered his bow rather sheepishly, dropping the arrow back into his quiver. "Not without good reason." 

"And I'm certain that you need little, let alone good reason to use that new bow." Estel flushed with a smile, and Elrohir laughed. "Come, brother; no one has seen you this week more than that bow. Shall we name it and announce your betrothal?" 

"Nay, for I'll not wed anyone with hair shorter than yours, nor as prettily braided," Estel shot back, slinging the bow across his back -- carefully. 

"Oh, you know that none of Imladris have hair nor face the prettier of mine. In fair Lorien there may be, perhaps. Have you a mind for another gift?" 

"What, you'd give me a pretty elf-maiden?" 

"I know that look on your face, and from that I know that none less than Luthien herself would compare to that bow of yours. No, something else -- I'll not tell you before you see for yourself. Will you come?" 

Estel grinned, beckoning Elrohir onward. "I'd follow you anywhere, brother. Now, where lies this gift?" 

Elrohir cuffed his ear lightly but ran ahead, and within a few minutes they were on the winding gravel-strewn path leading to the stables. From the path it was easy to see clear over the edge of the ravine, past the few bridges that spanned the valley and into the thicker trees where the hunt had been held, not so very far across the water. The mist drifted through the air like a cool wind, beading on Estel's eyelashes as he hurried to keep up with Elrohir. He blinked. "My gift isn't the glorious chance to muck out your share of the stalls again, is it?" 

"Brother! You wound me with such an accusation." Elrohir dramatically held one hand over his heart, then chuckled as he pulled the stable door open. "Your gift is much better, Elladan and I have seen to that. Come. --here, what do you think?" 

Estel stood as Elrohir slipped into a stall and emerged leading a leggy chestnut, gangly and rather-- "He looks a bit small," he said hesitantly. 

"Indeed, he's small. He's a yearling yet, and full brother to Glorfindel's Naroth. With the proper training, he'll take you anywhere you tell him to." Elrohir rubbed an affectionate hand over the horse's neck, turning him in a full circle in both directions before Estel. "What think you?" 

The boy stepped forward, reaching out to trace a finger down the crooked blaze on the horse's face. The colt wasn't the finest specimen of horseflesh he'd ever seen: doe eyes, lop-ears that tended to tip outward, bony withers and the thinnest tail he'd seen yet on a mount. But he stood square, and his _coloring_ -- velvety oak-brown in the shadows, and when Estel led him for another circle, the sun flashed bright copper in his mane and tail. Elladan and Elrohir would not give him an average horse. "I think he'll be called Lhach." 

"Indeed." Elrohir's smile appeared as he pulled open the stall door again. "Put him back, then, and go thank Elladan and Glorfindel for him. We three will help you train him." And he laughed, as Estel's face brightened with an almost childish joy and he dashed out of the stable. 


	8. Part VIII :: Evenstar

NOTES: Just a quick note to thank all of the reviewers and everyone who's sent me feedback! Really means a lot to me. ;) And kudos to anyone who can recognize Melpomaen. Heh. As an aside, the next few chapters will probably be awhile in the writing - school has finally caught up to me (again), and I'm still waiting on a few books to help me out with matters of canon and such. The ninth part should be out by February 5, though, and the others will start picking up again after that - please bear with me. :) 

-------------------------------------------- 

_Year 2951 - spring_

The trio rode across the Bruinen, tired and dirty but still in good spirits. The rushing water seemed to slow as the their horses splashed through it, sending sprays of clear droplets up at their riders' legs; the spring breeze, lazily drifting past with the clouds overhead, carried the scent of pine and apples from the southwest, the site of Elrond's newest orchard, and Estel breathed in the smells of Imladris with a smile as he urged his horse up the bank, illuminated against the setting sun's last rays. 

"And that last Orc!" Elrohir was enthusing, his grey mare charging up the steep bank after Estel's mount. "Amazing, Estel, really, with the reversed spear--" 

"I ought well be able to use the spear decently," Estel replied, pleased at the praise nonetheless. Elrohir, kind and patient as he was, still was not one to exaggerate skill. "You two taught me, after all." 

"And we can still best you with spear and bow," Elladan laughed, as they reached the path leading toward Elrond's house. 

"And knives," Estel said indulgently, knowing full well that it was true. "But I can beat both of you with a sword, and Lhach is faster than any horse either of you have." He patted his horse's neck affectionately. 

"Well, you know what they say - the faster the horse, the slower the rid--" 

"In any case, brother," Elladan cut in, "why couldn't you have found that particular skill to use during the last Orc-hunt? Before that Orc nearly cut my head off?" 

"Perhaps he was holding back for a reason," Elladan put in with a sly grin. 

The banter went on through the entire ride back. Estel put in the occasional remark or two but left most of the teasing to his foster-brothers, the light-hearted jibes passing over his head like water around the boulders lining the Bruinen. 

He was surprised to see Elrond waiting for them in the courtyard - not that he was unaccustomed to Elrond's habitual warmth toward all three of them, but the elf was usually too busy with the administration of Imladris to linger at his leisure with his sons, nor check on them following every hunt. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant sort of surprise, and all three dismounted almost simultaneously to hand off their horses to waiting grooms and head toward Elrond. "Ada!" Elrohir greeted him. "Have you been so anxious for our return that you've waited out here?" 

"I should hope that after two thousand years I shouldn't have to wait anxiously for your return," the master of Rivendell responded dryly, accepting a short embrace from all three. "As it is, you have all returned in more or less the same state I sent you off in, so I must assume that none of you have sustained any life-threatening injuries and wish to wash up immediately." 

"As if Elrohir ever washes," Elladan kidded as he headed past his father and into the house. Elrohir followed suit, good-naturedly muttering something about dwarves and the state of Elladan's hair. 

"Ah - Estel," Elrond said before Estel could follow the twins. The young man paused mid-step, turning to face Elrond. "Will you walk with me? I've been meaning to speak with you, but the messages from Lorien have stayed my attention until now." 

"Gladly, ada." And he changed his course to fall into step beside Elrond, heading around one of the side passages that extended up toward the balcony outside Elrond's study. 

"You recall how all your life, you've been told you were not ready for certain things," Elrond started thoughtfully, eyes slightly downcast. "To follow Elladan and Elrohir to the hunts. To use bow, sword, knives. To learn of your true heritage." Estel's expression darkened slightly at the mention of the last, but he merely nodded as Elrond went on. "You have proven to your mentors that you were ready to join your brothers. To learn the use of weaponry." 

He turned onto the veranda outside his study, brushing aside the draperies that blocked the harshest of the sun's rays from the interior and slipping inside before Estel. "I have realized that you are also ready to learn of your lineage. Perhaps you have been, and I had not noticed - but now, I tell you." He went to one of the shelves, taking down a box and unwrapping a tiny parcel from within it. "Do you know what I hold?" 

Estel's mouth went dry, and he swallowed hard, glancing between the ornate ring outheld in Elrond's hand and the elf's face. He shook his head once, finding enough voice to rasp out, "No." 

"Here is the ring of Barahir, the token of our kinship from afar. And here also," Elrond pressed the ring into Estel's unresisting hand before turning, drawing forth a roll of faded blue cloth and setting it upon his desk as he unfolded it, "are the shards of Narsil." Estel could do no more than stare at the fragments of broken sword, trying dimly to recall stories of old from the Hall of Fire and the significance of one such, one Sword that was Broken; Elrond continued, a gentle smile on his face. "With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The Scepter of Annuminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it." 

Estel nodded, mute, gaze dropping from his foster-father to the ring in his hands, to the shards of sword on the cloth, and back to Elrond. Elrond took a step closer, laying one hand on Estel's shoulder. "But I do not fear that you will not earn it. For your true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn." He stepped back, carefully rerolling the shards of Narsil in their cloth and offering it to Estel. "Heir to Isildur, and Lord of the Dunedain." 

------------ 

The next morning found Estel wandering around Imladris's forests in a daze. A pleasant, proud daze, true, but a daze nonetheless. He had seen both Elladan and Elrohir at dinner the previous night, and their exchange had done much to reassure him, even in his state then. 

  


_"Did you know all this time? And never told me?" _

"We were told that you weren't to know, brother. Calm down. 'Twas all thought to be for the best." 

"By the Valar, how can you still call me that? Knowing he to whom I am heir? You know the stories, of Isildur's weakness as well as I do!" 

"Better, even. And why should we not call you brother? Isildur's deeds will not shadow your future, and they do not erase your past. You are a brother of our hearts if nothing else, and being one of the Dunedain will not change that." 

  


He had not gone back to his rooms that night, unable to face his mother yet - instead, he had slept outdoors in Ithil's beams, lulled to a troubled sleep by the familiar sounds of the forest and the soothing noise of the ford's waters nearby. When he had awoken, his mind hadn't been entirely eased, but some measure of pride at his lineage had sept into the confusion that surrounded this revelation. 

He spent the entire day after that trying to recreate every skill he'd ever learned from Elladan and Elrohir, Glorfindel and Elrond, anyone in Imladris. No, of course he'd never been as good as they. He was mere humankind; destined to death, and to the weakness of the forebears he'd always heard stories of but had never thought on more than as simply a legend. By the time Anor started setting, casting shattered golden reflections on the ford's surface, he lingered among the birch forest within view of Elrond's house in the most turmoil he'd ever been in all his life, wavering from tulmultous joy at having finally learned of his ancestry - and what an ancestry it was, the son of kings! - to utter desolation at having been untimely torn from his brothers, much as they would deny any change. 

A sudden wind rasped through the trees, unusually harsh for the spring eves - with it came the faint sounds of footsteps, carelessly placed among the growing things on the ground. Estel was immediately on guard, eyes straying toward the direction from whence the noise came. What he saw stopped all thought for a long moment, casting away even the doubts that had been pounding at his brain all through the day. 

A maiden - no, goddess, surely - walked with unfamiliar leisure through the trees, the wind softening as she passed; long hair as dark as his own, as the night sky lifted in the breeze, straying across shell-pale skin. Blues and silvers from her simple mantle reflected in her eyes, warming the wondering half-smile upon her lips as she reached upward to graze long fingers across a birch branch. 

_Tinuviel was dancing there // to music of a pipe unseen, // and light of stars was in her hair, // and in her raiment glittering. . ._

Before he could stop himself, he heard himself cry, "Tinuviel!" 

She turned, and he flushed in mortification - no, it could not be Luthien, and he was a fool for having burst out with that name. But she only smiled and came a few steps closer, and he forgot his sudden shame. "Who are you? And why do you call me by that name?" 

Estel was abruptly aware of the feeling described in the romantic poems included in most of the works he'd read, recopied for Elrond - perhaps it wasn't such 'sentimental rubbish' as he'd termed it once, not so long ago, to compare faces to those of the Valar and voices to the sweetest of bells. He swallowed hard before he could speak. "Because I believed you to be indeed Luthien Tinuviel. But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness." 

"So many have said, yet her name is not mine." The maiden's smile softened a degree, a touch more gravely though the light in her eyes did not dim as she regarded him. "Though maybe my doom will be not unlike hers. But who are you?" 

"Estel I was called, but I am Aragorn," and his voice faltered slightly, the name foreign on his tongue. "Arathorn's son, Isildur's Heir, Lord of the Dunedain." 

She laughed then, and he lost all remembrance of his former dejection. "Then we are kin from afar! For I am Arwen," she said, "Elrond's daughter, and am named also Undomiel." 

"Often it is seen that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure," Estel started, feeling unabashedly idiotic at trying to say something resembling proper elvish to the beautiful Evenstar. He went on, anyway. "Yet I marvel at Elrond and your brothers, for though I have dwelt in this house from childhood, I have heard no word of you. How comes it that we have never met before?" He dared an attempt at humor. "Surely your father has not kept you locked in his hoard?" 

This time, she only smiled again, and looked to the east toward the mountains that rose, jagged spires against the sunset-reddened sky. "No. I have dwelt for a time in the land of my mother's kin, in far Lothlorien. I have but lately returned to visit my father again. It is many years since I walked in Imladris." She mistook his wide-eyed look for wonder at her seeming youth, and went on to add, "Do not wonder! For the children of Elrond have the life of the Eldar." 

In truth, he did not care about her age; living with Elladan and Elrohir had ceased his amazement at the stretch of elven lives long ago. And too, he knew of the circumstance that had sent Elrond's wife Celebrian across the Sea into the west. No - he could not comprehend that Arwen was in Imladris only to visit; only briefly, and that she would again leave. Years to an elf passed quickly, and if she left, he knew that he would be forgotten, never to see her again. His heart nearly broke just to listen to her bid him a good night and begin the walk back to Elrond's house. 

And he did not want to imagine what he would do if she were to leave Imladris altogether. 

That night, he slept again under the stars, troubled again but by reasons far different than his lineage. He dreamt of stars reflected on the ocean, blues and silvers pooling in a sea of black that surrounded the face of the fickle moon, casting herself back into indeterminate darkness and out of his sight forever. 


	9. Part IX :: Revelations

"You throw, I'll catch?" 

"By all means." 

Estel - no, _Aragorn_ - stirred slightly in his sleep. Voices came from below, sounding oddly like his brothers. And there was the strange sensation of something small hitting his side. Pebbles. But why would he be sleeping above his brothers, being hit by pebbles? It was probably still a dream. 

THWAP. 

A stone the size of his fist struck him in the shoulder, lightly enough that it didn't bruise but hard enough that he woke up, twisted around, and found himself falling off of his makeshift bed: a tree branch. 

"Ai!" He tried to grab onto another branch as it passed, but by then it was too late - he hurtled through the air, startled a nearby bird (or several) into flight, and landed squarely in Elladan's arms with a decidedly un-kingly yelp. The dark-haired elf let out a grunt as he staggered back a step before balancing himself with his burden again; Elrohir, features lined with risible humor, bounded over, dropping a handful of egg-sized rocks into the dirt along the way. 

"Troubled dreams, brother? Or did you take it upon yourself to take the dawn watch again? I've never known you to sleep so late of your own volition." 

It was indeed late; the sun was already high overhead, casting filtered golden light between the filmy leaves above and illuminating motes of dust and pollen in its rays. Estel declined to answer Elrohir's teasing question, instead struggling in Elladan's grasp until the elf simply let him go and stepped back as the young man hit the ground flat on his back. He lurched to his feet, wincing at the strain that had developed in his side probably as a result of having slept - if his rest could be termed sleeping - on a branch only a foot wide. 

"Well, brother?" Elrohir prompted, reaching up to dangle lightly from the branch in question. 

"I already told you, I can be no brother of yours," Aragorn responded, studiously avoiding either elf's gaze and turning instead to brush his back off. 

Elladan sighed. "Do not make us go over this again, n'estel. It's so tedious." He pointed at the patiently-hanging Elrohir. "Brother." Pointed at himself. "Brother." And a last point that went as far as to prod Estel in the chest, right beneath where his chin was firmly tucked. "Brother." 

Aragorn glanced up quickly from the ground, gaze sullenly dark. "Elf," he contradicted, nodding toward Elladan. "Elf," toward Elrohir. "Human." He ended with a quick jerk of his chin toward his chest. 

"Elrond, our father, was yet brother to Elros,Tar-Minyatur," Elrohir remarked mildly, still swinging idly from the branch. 

"_Your_ father, because he is peredhil," Aragorn snapped. "He is half-elven; you are not. I am not." 

"Elros became the first of the Numenorean kings," Elladan pointed out, rather testily. "If you are who you claim, you share in the blood of both Earendil and Elwing, as we do." 

"It doesn't change anything." 

Elladan snorted. "And for once today, you are right. It changes nothing. You are still hopeless, you are still my little brother, and you _still_ act as though you're four. Go and learn of your history before you shun it, and us, so." By the time Aragorn looked up again, an angry retort on his lips, the elf was gone, not a trace of his departure evident except for the exasperated glance Elrohir was sending into the woods. 

Elrohir merely shrugged at Aragorn's questioning glance. "You hurt him," he said, dropping back to the ground lightly. "He was worried for you last night when you didn't return - one of the sentries reported a few bands of Orcs near the High Moors, and he feared that you might have left Imladris without a warning." 

"Wouldn't want his prized human brother to run off on his watch and get killed, would he?" Aragorn said, voice bitter. 

"Estel," and somehow Elrohir managed to put some sharp rebuke in the name without even raising his voice. 

The human flushed, recognizing the reproval and regretting his caustic remark but forging on anyway. "My name is Aragorn. Not Estel." 

"You are still our little brother, no matter what under the sun you call yourself," Elrohir said, annoyance breaking through his patience for a brief moment. Settling himself again, he continued. "He was worried for your safety, among other things. He always is. You upset him, so he left before he could get angry." 

"He's always angry," Aragorn muttered, shifting uneasily on his feet. 

Elrohir moved to sit at the base of the tree, not bothering to beckon the human to sit as well. He glanced over at Aragorn, expressionless. "He's never been angry with you, little brother. Believe me. If he were truly angry at you, you probably would not leave the room alive." 

"So he's never been angry with you, I imagine?" Aragorn drawled sardonically. 

"A few times. Never for long." 

"Then he's upset at you more often?" 

"A little more." 

"Then why do I still upset him so?" 

"Because he worries far more for you than me," Elrohir responded, looking up as Aragorn sat down in front of him. "Ever since our mother was attacked by Orcs, he has tried to protect what was his. But she left for the Havens, and then Arwen left for Lorien after that. He would not lose a brother, too. It upsets him to see you acting foolishly because he can't protect you from everything now." 

"He's never done anything for me! 'Twas always you who would go with me." 

"Are you blind? I fought with you, yes, taught you how to use knives, but do you think that a new pair simply sprouted from your sheaths every time your old ones dulled beyond repair? Glorfindel did not just suddenly decide one day that he needed a pupil to teach to read and write." Elrohir's dark eyes blazed. "Haldir of Lorien would not have given up a bow of Melpomaen's if it had not been for Elladan's suggestion, nor would he have come back last summer to take you journeying to Caras Galen without Elladan's request. Elladan has done more for you than anyone else in Imladris, most like. You have no right to say that he has done nothing for you." 

Aragorn gaped. His features furrowed into a frown of sudden comprehension, and he subsided into a long quiet, gaze lowering from Elrohir's to the ground. "I have been a fool," he said in a low voice, a few minutes later. 

"No, brother; not a fool. But stubborn, and heavy-hearted," Elrohir responded, softening. "He was overjoyed when Arwen returned from Lorien, but you took him out of that mood when she told us that you did not come back with her last night." 

"I'm sorry," Aragorn murmured, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for, but it sounded appropriate. Elrohir, of course, picked up on the tone and stood. 

"You're not. Not really. Think of something that you mean, and when you do, come back to the house. Arwen would wish to see you again." 

"Wait!" Aragorn looked up, saw that Elrohir was still there. "Why did you never tell me of her?" 

"You never asked, little brother," and the smallest of smiles broke across the elf's face. "'Twas perhaps the only question you did not." He turned and stepped into the trees again, quickly fading from view. 

This time, Aragorn followed him back to the house. 

----------------------------------------- 

"You shall have neither wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it." 

Aragorn stared at Elrond. He had not even yet spoken a word since he entered the room, but his foster-father had somehow managed, with the same uncanny ability displayed through all of his childhood, to spell out everything in his heart in under two sentences. "Can it be that my mother has spoken of this?" he hazarded a guess - after all, the last words she had spoken to him were 'I do not think that you will have the good will of Elrond in this matter.' 

"No, indeed." Elrond stopped his slow, deliberate pacing around the study, stood in front of his desk to look at Aragorn. "Your own eyes have betrayed you - but I do not speak of my daughter alone." He paused, and Aragorn inclined his head, waiting for him to go on. "She is Arwen the Fair, Evenstar of her people; she is of lineage greater than yours, and you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers to her. Even if her heart turned towards you, I should still be grieved because of the doom that is laid on us." 

"What is that doom?" Aragorn asked guardedly, dreading the answer. 

"That so long as I abide here, she shall live with the youth of the Eldar, and when I depart, she shall go with me, if she so chooses." 

"Such is my fate. . ." Aragorn whispered, gaze turning downward. Elrond turned away, looking out to the mountains in the distance as the sun sank behind their peaks and silence settled over the room. 

"We will speak no more of this until many years have passed," Elrond said after a few more moments, turning to Aragorn again. But the room was empty; Aragorn was gone. 

--------------------------- 

Ithil shone still, constant in her tendencies; shattered beams of silver spilled into the courtyard, and the night air was cool and still. Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel rode silently across the Bruinen, weariness of mind taking its toll on their bodies in the slump of posture. Gilraen watched them enter the courtyard, hope fading within her as she turned away from the balcony. Elrond stood within the room, face in shadow but expression pained. 

"Your sons have taught him too well if he can escape them with only two days' lead," she said in a low voice, meeting his gaze for a moment. 

"All too willingly, on both their parts." He caught her arm before she could step around him. "Do not despair, Gilraen. We will find him, or he will find us." From behind them, Elrohir tapped on the doorway, expressionless. When Elrond turned toward him, Gilraen deftly extracted her arm from his grasp and strode away, gracing Elrohir only with a sad smile. "What news?" he asked his son. 

"Glorfindel has gone to send messengers to Lothlorien and Caras Galen. We found tracks leading toward the east, but they faded. . . Two days is too long, ada. Even Glorfindel cannot distinguish tracks that old." Elrond nodded, and Elrohir went on, struggling to control the frustration in his voice. "Tracks to the east - we think he may head toward Caras Galen, at least for awhile. Elladan is.. not happy." 

"He's gone to take over the dawn watch by the ford?" 

Elrohir nodded. "Melpomaen will be glad enough to let him have the watch." 

"Have you told Arwen?" 

"Not yet. I will, perhaps in the morning. 'Tis too late right now to wake her, if she's asleep." Elrohir sighed. "I fear for Elladan, ada." 

"I fear more for Aragorn when he comes back. Elladan has never appreciated notes, let alone notes to tell him that one of his brothers has left Imladris." 

The younger elf's eyes darkened, and he straightened slightly with a sharp, "Do not make light of this, ada." 

"My apologies, Elrohir. Truly." Elrond sighed, too, looking out to the courtyard again as if expecting to see his errant foster-son riding back in. "He will come back when it is time. I know this." 

Miles away, stopped at the fringed borders of the Grey Mountains, Aragorn had set up a small camp for the night; watching as his fire burnt down to mere embers, he took one of his knives and set to the painstaking task of shearing off his elven locks up to his shoulders. When morning came, he was astride his mount again, a fleeting image of horse and rider disappearing into the early dew-ridden mists that fogged the mountainside. 


	10. Part X :: Greenwood

_Year 2952 - winter_

The wind whistled through the trees, biting, bitterly cold; sickly pale sunlight fought past the branches' shadow to sweep transient relief over the man and horse riding through as the muddied waters of the Carnen gurgled alongside. The few birds left in the growth beside the river were silent, and all that could be heard were the light stamp of hooves through the snow-frost covering the foliage. 

Aragorn kept his eyes to the water, occasionally glancing about his bank and the opposite for any movement, but there was none. Even Orcs, it seemed, had thought it wiser to stay in milder climes for the winter. He had not felt properly warm in weeks, and he was starting to miss warmth that stretched further than the reach of a tiny campfire. 

Ahead, the river narrowed - had in fact been decreasing in width for about half a day's trotting trek - and he nudged Lhach into a faster pace, veering away from the riverside slightly. It had been to his own disadvantage that he'd started on the wrong side of the river when he'd left the Iron Hills some sevendays ago; somehow, he didn't feel like riding clear around the Sea of Rhun to get around, nor following the river for however long it took to find an actual bridge crossing it. As he got nearer to the spot he'd chosen, he slowed Lhach again, and turned the horse away from the river. 

About ten feet away, he squeezed Lhach into a sharp canter around, leaned forward, and - with a brief prayer for his saddlebags - heeled the horse into a neat leap across the thinnest crossing of the water. Lhach's hind hooves landed with a cold splash in the eddying swirl of mud and water at the edge of the river, and Aragorn lurched in the saddle, grabbing handfuls of chestnut mane as the horse struggled forward until he was entirely on solid ground again. "Easy, Lhach," he murmured as the chestnut settled into a loping canter, turning him toward the south, following the river again. Nightfall came early, and he was forced by the deepening darkness to stop a few hours later, leaving Lhach untethered as he slid into his bedroll and went to sleep, still cold. 

Dawn rose, unfurling tremulous rays of pearly gold and faded pink into the black sky, and Aragorn rose with it, quickly saddling Lhach again and setting out on the same course as before. They followed that routine for another ten days, crossing what he knew to be the Celduin River on the seventh. They now rode west, heading forward the ever-looming forest in the distance: Caras Galen, or as Men called it - and Aragorn knew he should, but the Sindarin names still stood in his mind - Mirkwood. 

-------------- 

He was expecting a sentry (or several, if Thranduil's defenses were still as strong as they had been when he had come with Haldir two summers previously) to appear, but when a half-dozen archers suddenly materialized out of the trees, forcing Lhach to a quick halt, he was still unnerved at the speed and the silence with which they came. _"Anna suilad,"_ he greeted them after a moment of quiet, raising his hands in an appeasing gesture. _"Im Aragorn Arathornion, in Dunedain."_ Lhach shifted restlessly beneath him, and he automatically stroked the horse's neck, quieting him before adding, "I am known to king Thranduil as Estel of Imladris." 

One of the elves lowered his bow, after a few seconds; the others followed suit. "Then welcome, Aragorn of the Dunedain." A short silence fell again, before the leader nodded at one of the elves at the side of the group. "Ormalfin will take you to the king." 

"My thanks," Aragorn responded with a salute, dismounting and feeling oddly ill at ease - the elves' immaculate appearance reminded him not only of his brothers and the other elves in Imladris, but also of his own disheveled appearance. Winter outdoors boded worse for bathing than for sleeping warm. He stepped up beside the waiting Ormalfin - the other elves had already disappeared back into the forest - and called for the reinless Lhach to follow. 

The walk passed in rather stiff silence, broken only by the haunting croon of a bird in Caras Galen's gloomy forests or the occasional snort from Lhach. Aragorn sent a silent word of gratitude to Elbereth when they finally reached the austere palace, and Ormalfin left him to the guidance of one of the guards within as a groom led Lhach away. On their way to Thranduil's quarters, they passed a lone elf in a corridor, watchful eyes roaming down the hall but hazed in thought before they lit on Aragorn. "Estel?" he asked, stopping; Aragorn and the guard, too, slowed and halted, the guard bowing his head respectfully to the ashen-haired elf. 

"Legolas?" 

"Why -- " the prince broke off, nodding to the guard. "My gratitude. You may return to your post." Dismissed, the other elf left silently, Aragorn watching his departure with a quirked look before turning his attention back to Legolas. "You have not returned to Imladris?" 

Aragorn shook his head, brow furrowing into a faint frown. "How did you know?" 

"That you'd left Imladris?" He nodded. "Your brothers sent a messenger to us, just before last midsummer to tell us that you'd gone." Mirkwood's prince regarded Aragorn staidly, light eyes inscrutably in the shadows of the corridor. "'Twas labeled an urgent message." 

For the first time, Aragorn was struck by how much Legolas's manner resembled Elladan's: aloof, collected, and short-spoken - just this side of what Aragorn would call 'stuffy'. And for the first time he was grateful to having lived with Elladan and his oft-unfinished statements for so long; for now he could understand the words left unspoken as well as those said aloud. "You will not sent a messenger back yet?" It was more a plea than a question. 

"That would depend on many things," Legolas said at length, solemnly; and slowly, as if it didn't quite belong on his face, a grin appeared. "Not yet, though. Nay, not 'til you've at least washed off all of that grime. My father would not speak to anyone in that condition, not even one of Elrond's sons." 

Aragorn's subtle smile faded slightly at mention of Elrond, but he inclined his head slightly. "That would be appreciated, if you could spare the time and resource." 

"I would have little if I had not time," the elf replied with a small smile. "Come. I will show you to the bathing pools. And after, I will take you to my father." 

-------------------------------- 

It was amazing, Aragorn decided, how much half an hour in a pool of hot water could do to lift one's spirits. Though still clothed in his worn traveling garments, he could at least see the natural color of his skin again, or so Legolas jibed subtly as they walked toward Thranduil's chambers. 

"Father," Legolas greeted the older, stately-looking elf as they stepped in. He moved aside as Aragorn bowed his head, pressing his right hand to his heart in a salute. "Estel of Imladris, now known as Aragorn of the Dunedain." 

"My lord Thranduil," and Aragorn straightened, feeling the appraisal evident in Thranduil's cobalt-colored eyes; the king was little taller than his son, but he carried an air of majesty and power that Legolas did not. "I bring no news from Imladris, but I ask your leave to stay within Caras Galen as your leisure serves." 

"It is not within my desire to deny one even formerly from bountiful Imladris," Thranduil replied formally. Aragorn noted that the king's voice had not lost any of its gravely edge in the two years since he'd last heard it, nor its harsh lilt, unusual in elves. "You may remain here as long as you wish it. Have you any other needs that require my attention?" 

Aragorn blinked, at a loss for words at the king's brusqueness. Legolas saw the bemusement flickering across the man's face and stepped in. "No, Father. I will take him to one of the empty chambers." 

"I did not.. upset him, did I?" Aragorn asked Legolas once he was certain they were out of the king's earshot, turning slightly to glance back down the hallway. 

"No," the prince responded with a chuckle. "If you mean to ask it, he usually is that abrupt. 'Tis not becoming for an elf, I know." 

"He makes Haldir of Lorien even seem a chatterbox." 

"And that is a frightening thought." 

Aragorn looked sharply toward Legolas, but the elf's face was blank of any of the faint sarcasm that had tinged his words. "You dislike Haldir?" 

"No." Legolas rounded a corner, pushed open a door that creaked faintly with disuse. "Will this room suit you? I am sorry, but most of the balconied rooms have purposes," he added, somewhat apologetically. 

"It will serve well." He could see why the room was not yet used - though capacious, it was built in a fashion almost dwarven, high walls and canted ceiling all constructed of dark wood and darker stone. He felt a pang of faint claustrophobia just looking into it. 

"If you mean to stay longer than you did last time, I could have one of the other rooms cleared for you by tomorrow." 

Aragorn had to smile at the prince's tacit inquiry, but nodded. "Will a sevenday's stay here burden you?" 

"Not at all. Caras Galen's resources are your own 'til you leave. Sleep well, then." 

"Legolas." The prince paused, turned back to glance at Aragorn as thte man called after him. "Thank you." 

A slight smile curved Legolas's mouth. "You are most welcome." His footsteps, deliberately sounded, faded away down the dark hall as Aragorn slipped into the cavernous room. 

----------------------------- 

The next morning found him wandering through the shadowy groves of the famed Greenwood on foot - despite its darkness even in daylight, Aragorn found the openness of the forest more comforting than the enclosed space of his temporary room. On his return toward the palace, he was surprised to come across Legolas alone in a clearing, taking shots at a dead tree. As he watched, the prince put a straight line of five arrows into the old wood in rapid succession, the dull practice arrows piercing the target easily. 

"Impressive." 

Legolas half-twisted at the comment in surprise, loosing his bow unintentionally - by chance, he managed to jerk the bow at the last second, sending the arrow flitting into the leaves above Aragorn's head even as the man ducked. "Aragorn!" 

"Like I said," Aragorn said, straightening with a mild grin. "Impressive." 

"You startled me." Legolas leveled an even look at the man, lowering his bow to his side. "My apologies." 

"'Tis I who should apologize. Are you always outside this early?" 

"As often as I can be. Whenever I'm not assisting my father." The elf went to the tree, carefully prising the arrows out. "Will you go back with me? I was going to return soon." 

"Gladly." 

"And while we go, you must tell me of your travels. It has been too long since I have left Caras Galen." 

The wind rustled through the dark trees, softened in its chill by the buffer of flora near as immortal as those who resided within the forest. And the two figures strode back toward the house, illusory silhouettes dark and bright against the sublunary trees. 


	11. Part XI :: Masquerade

_Year 2953 - late summer_

Aragorn almost found himself wishing for winter again. For the last four days since he had passed the eastern border into Rohan, the heat had been astounding - mosquitos and flies swarmed everywhere, the ground radiated heat well into the evening, and during midday.. 

He trudged along, Lhach plodding along behind him - the horse's coat was damp and dark with sweat from the minor exertion of just walking, and walking slowly at that. Aragorn was not faring much better, having shedded as many layers of clothing as possible without baring too much of his skin to the biting flies; it didn't help. Perhaps he should have found someplace cooler to stay for the summer. _An oven, maybe,_ he mused; behind him Lhach snorted, as if reading his thoughts and dismissing them with utter disdain. 

When darkness fell, he set up camp beneath a small rocky overhang from the ruins of some great stone of ages past. In the growing shade, he could see from afar tiny spots of firelight - a village. Lhach slept standing nearby as Aragorn took out his knife, still sharpened from his stay half a year ago in Mirkwood, and carefully cut away a year's growth of hair until his locks once again cleared to his jawline. After a brief, restless sleep he was riding toward the village before dawn broke, keeping Lhach at a canter while the day was still dew-misty and cool. 

They reached the village even before the sun had scorched away the last vestiges of damp from the ground. A sentry must have reported his approach, for most of the shutters on the houses were drawn shut, and a small gathering of men and boys was congregated ahead, a few armed with long spears. Aragorn brought Lhach to a halt, dismounting after a moment's indecision and walking the rest of the way with Lhach striding along behind him. "Men of Rohan!" he called, stopping again no more than ten feet away. "Would you let me pass? I bring no evil to the Riddermark." 

One giant of a man stepped forward, a full head taller than any other in the group and broad-shouldered to match; keenly dark eyes regarded Aragorn beneath darker hair. "Whether you would pass or join us, we would know your name, stranger." 

_Name?_ It had not occured to Aragorn before that he should not give his true name to all of Arda, but then, most of his time spent before had been in the company of elves or his horse. He discreetly cast his eyes upward, catching sight of a huge winged silhouette above-- "Thorongil," he said. The eagle of the star. "My name is Thorongil." 

"Well then, _Thorongil_," the big man drawled, clearly knowing that the name was false but sounding amused nonetheless. "We will hold you to your word that you do not bring ill to the Ma--" 

At that moment, a boy burst out of some obscure door - Aragorn had not been paying enough attention to know from where - out of breath and red in the face. "Selinethas, Corcharod says that his horse has gone lame! He says to.." he trailed off, seeing the interrupted conversation, and ducked away back into the darkness again with a muttered apology. 

"Tell him that we will leave without him, then!" the man - Selinethas - called after the boy before turning back to Aragorn. "Where're you headed?" 

"Edoras," came the guarded reply. 

"That's good, for we're going to Edoras as well." Selinethas cocked his head slightly to the side as the group behind him began to disperse slowly, eyeing Aragorn and Lhach critically. "Will you come with us? 

Aragorn hesitated again, glancing at the disintegrating group - a dozen or so tall lads, with Selinethas being one of three men there. Selinethas himself hadn't said anything about it, but Aragorn knew from experience that they would be looking for another adept hunter for the group as well, particularly in weather this harsh, when few game would be in the open of Rohan's plains. 

"If it would be for the best, I will go with you," he said, stepping forward. 

"Are you ready to ride? We're late to leave already - you can have Corcharod's provisions, if you have none for yourself." 

Aragorn nodded.

"We'll go, then." Selinethas turned toward the stables with some indistinguishable roar of orders to those within, and in minutes the boys came rushing back, leading bridled horses laden with packs. "Mount up! We ride south!" 

  


That day seemed cooler than the last four had been. Aragorn wasn't sure if the weather had actually taken a turn for the better, or if the company he was in simply made the sun's ferocity dim in comparison. For the moment, he was riding ahead of the group with Selinethas while the other two men had had the job of watching the overly-rowdy boys foisted upon them. After hours of doing that particular duty, Aragorn felt somewhat sorry for the men, and more than a little annoyed at the boys' continual immaturiry. It was easy enough to ignore the intermittent shouts and the random squeals of an irritated horse from behind him. 

"So you said you're from further north." 

"North of the Riddermark," Aragorn corrected absently, casting his gaze over the flat grasslands ahead. Rohan's summer heat had dried the ground to a dusty dun, and the grass that covered it was not much darker in shade, with only rare patches of true green showing through. 

"North of here," Selinethas repeated, somewhat dubiously. "The Wilderland, perhaps?" 

"No." 

"The Lone-lands?" 

"No. Does it really matter," Aragorn inquired, somewhat irritably, before the man could ask again, "from whence I came? All you need know is that I go to serve Thengel King in Edoras." The silence after his words fell uncomfortably, and the sudden silence from the group behind them only doubled it, until he sighed. "I am sorry." 

"No, you're right. It's not my place to ask after that if you don't want to tell it." Selinethas glanced over at Aragorn with a crooked smile. "Mind me asking something else, though?" 

"I cannot guarantee that I'd have an answer." 

"Well - why do you ride reinless?" 

Aragorn blinked, looked down at Lhach's sweat-dark neck. No, there were no reins there, nor a bridle. "I'm accustomed to riding without them. I was taught that way, and it's easier to handle a weapon if you don't have to hold the reins." 

"And if your horse there were to run off?" 

"I trained him myself, and he has not failed me yet in courage." Aragorn shrugged. "I have no reason to believe he'd run off anywhere unless it were at my bidding." 

"Looks like he'd be quick enough to run off, to me," Selinethas said doubtfully, looking down at Lhach from atop his own huge steel-grey mount. Aragorn glanced at his horse, too, and was forced to admit to himself that, compared to the other larger destriers of the group, Lhach did look somewhat -- lacking. He seemed almost dainty, fine-boned and light-footed over the harsh terrain; while a chestnut coat was common enough in horses, the flame-red mane and tail which had given him his name seemed too bright beside the other horses. Aragorn found himself wondering if, in comparison to other men, he seemed more elvish, or human? Ethereal or earthly? 

"He's quick enough to beat any horse I've raced him against," he admitted, reaching down to pat Lhach's damp shoulder. "But my brothers once told me that it should not be in my nature to run from my foes, and Lhach seems to have taken the advice, too." 

Selinethas let out a bark of laughter, startling his own horse into a nervous sidestep. "Your brothers, eh? So they taught you to ride that way, too?" 

"Yes," Aragorn replied evenly, and for the first time in a long while, he smiled. "My brothers." 

  


That night, he and Selenithas led two of the more mature boys on a brief hunting expedition that took them in a half-mile chase on horseback across the plains for one of the fragile-looking deer of Rohan that had wandered too far from a herd. Aragorn's wry conclusion, about a quarter of a mile into the pursuit, was that their quarry was much tougher than it looked. It was his arrow that finally took the beast down, and as they trussed up the carcass to take it back to their camp, he found himself plagued by a barrage of questions from the two boys. 

"Thorongil, how did you learn to shoot like that?" 

"Can you teach us?" 

"Where did you get such a fast horse?" 

"How can such a little horse _run_ like that, Thorongil?" 

"Is that why you don't ride with a bridle?" 

His hands slicked with the deer's blood, Aragorn resisted the urge to cover his ears and flinch his way back to Lhach's quiet company. Instead, he picked up the deer, unceremoniously dumped it in the taller lad's arms, and announced, "Questions after the food. The others are waiting." Selenithas was laughing as Aragorn mounted up and rode back ahead of them, shaking his head. 

When the fire had burnt out, the endless questions answered, and the deer eaten, Selenithas and the other two men rounded up the horses to tie them on a line that led to a stake just pounded into the dry ground. Aragorn was jolted out of his postprandial thoughts by Selenithas's booming voice. "Thorongil!" 

"What?" 

"Come and hold your horse. How are we to tether him if he has no bridle?" 

Aragorn blinked, squinting out into the darkness against the flaring brightness that staring into the embers of the fire had left on his eyes. "You can leave Lhach free. He won't leave the camp." He took the vague muttering as assent, and rolled onto his bedroll to sleep. 

He woke again to the roaring of Selinethas's voice, and he wondered if coming along with others had been such a good idea after all. Sitting up, he rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes, tried to find out what was going on from beneath the overcutting clamor that was Selenithas. The man was looming over four of the most juvenile-acting lads, and the entire quartet was looking quite young indeed as they found themselves all but cowering under his wrath. The rest of the camp was waking up as well, though it was not yet morning. And then Aragorn noticed one thing that made him rub his eyes again in disbelief. 

The entire picketed line of horses was gone with nothing more than a spot of hoof-trampled dirt to signify that they'd ever been in the camp at all. Lhach was -- Lhach was behind him, Aragorn found out, as a velvety chestnut nose nudged his back. But the other fifteen horses were most definitely absent. 

_At least we won't have to worry about Orcs ambushing us,_ he thought dryly, climbing to his feet. He was fairly certain the sheer volume of Selinethas's voice would frighten off anything living in the area. "Selinethas--" No luck. "Selinethas. Selinethas!" he shouted the last, and finally caught the man's attention, turning it away from the boys as complete silence fell over the camp. "What has happened?" 

"These fools," Selinethas growled, jabbing one finger accusatively at the four boys, "these _clods_ decided it would be fun to test your word by trying to scare your horse into fleeing the camp." 

"Well, since that obviously did not work.." Aragorn looked between the shamefaced lads and the incensed man. He clenched his jaw for a moment, fighting to dampen his rising ire at the thought of anyone attempting to abuse an animal for such an idiotic reason. _No elf would ever do such a thing._ "What happened to the other horses?" 

"One of them probably spooked when one of these idiots here tried to rush your horse, and they all panicked. They took off, every last one." 

"We didn't mean to," said one boy, sullen. 

"Didn't mean to?" Selenithas bellowed. "You meant to frighten one horse away to test his rider's word. I would say you have succeeded!" 

There came a surprised murmur from the boys, though no definite reply. 

"Yes, succeeded," he continued, suddenly soft of voice, taking a step toward them. To their credit, only a few backed up. "You have broken the word of the Rohirrim that says that their horses, when tied, will stay in their camp." 

"So we have," said one youth, brasher than all the rest. "What of it?" 

"What of it?" Selenithas repeated, all too pleasantly. His eyes blazed. "There is little of it. So little, in fact, that I will tell you of it now." His voice turned suddenly harsh as he straightened, sending an even look at the quartet. "We will continue on foot. Thorongil -- as you've the only horse in camp, I'd be obliged to ask you to ride to Edoras alone and give the king our excuse." 

Aragorn paused a moment and nodded, but said, "It would still be better for you, I think, were I to go after your horses and bring them back -- if all goes well, 'twould only be a day's delay."

Selenithas frowned as he mulled that over, but at length he nodded. "You're a good man, Thorongil, to risk your spot in the recruit for us." 

"Then I will take out my horse in search of yours, and I will return by sunset, with or without them." 

"Even if you do return with the horses, you four'll be walking the rest of the way to Edoras, carrying your horses' packs, in return for slowing all of us down this much," Selenithas directed to the boys with a scowl. 

"I will accompany them, if that is the case, until we get there," Aragorn supplied quietly, kneeling to pack his bedroll. At Selenithas's protesting look, he managed a hint of a smile. "The recruit is not so important to me as it is to you, I fear." 

"But we'll be late!" 

"You'll be late in any case. Get going. 'Twill be morning soon." Amid the grumbling and the muttering, Aragorn quickly saddled Lhach up, adjusting straps and buckles for an long moment. 

"You're kind, Thorongil," Selinethas said from behind him. Aragorn didn't turn, just went on fiddling with buckles that didn't need to be refastened. "Most anyone else wouldn't care if those lads were left alone and eaten by wraiths on their way up, after what they did to those horses." 

Aragorn shrugged slightly, running one hand over the saddle before swinging himself up into it, rubbing Lhach's neck briskly. "Rohan's dedication to its horses is admirable, but you do not have time to do worse to them, and it is not in my nature to leave anyone alone on these plains." With a quick nudge of his knees, he turned Lhach toward the direction of the tracks the other horses had left. "I'll find you by sundown." And he was off, spurring his horse into a light canter across the sun-lightening fields. 

It did not take long to find the horses - still tied together, they left a swath of tracks that he probably could have found when he was seven years old, all leading to a vaguely hilly area that still sported green grass at its peaks. The group of horses was grazing, barely flickering an ear when Aragorn rode Lhach up beside them. 

_And how am I to bring them all back?_ he wondered, looking at them. The tie was not so long that he could use it to lead them to the camp, at least not without some serious fear of tangling the horses in the middle, and it already looked to be fraying in a few spots. As he watched, one of the horses stepped a little too close to another in its eagerness for a bite of grass, and was rewarded with flattened ears and an irritated squeal. _Great. A lovely task._

Two hours into their grounded trek across the plains, Selinethas was treated to the sight of what looked like an entire herd of horses galloping toward them, kicking up dust enough to leave clouds in their wake. And there, going behind the group, was a rider atop a dainty little chestnut, swerving out to the sides every so often to keep the horses from straying away. As they approached, Aragorn nudged Lhach into a faster pace, circling around to the front of the herd to slow them down, until the horses came to a stop, sweat-streaked and dusty, and no more than fifty feet away from the group of riders. And six days later, he and the four boys trudged up the steep slope to Edoras, their horses trailing behind. 

Selinethas was waiting for them in front of the stables; Aragorn wondered if the man had seen them from afar, or if he just had an incredible sense of timing. "Welcome again, Thorongil. You four," the big man said, nodding expressionlessly at the quartet of boys, "will return home with the next patrol group that goes north. You are too late for the autumn recruit, and Thengel will not take on riders who do not respect their mounts. Go," he added, rather forcefully, when one of the boys started to protest. "You will stay in Edoras until then. Go find lodgings with whoever will take you." 

Aragorn watched the boys retreat, one hand reaching back to idly scratch beneath Lhach's forelock. "And I?" he inquired in a low voice, glancing up at Selinethas. "The recruits must have all been ridden in at least two days ago." 

"Ah - I hope you don't mind that I took a few liberties for you, then." 

"Liberties?" 

"Well, I explained your absence to the First Marshal," Selinethas explained, turning toward the stables and beckoning Aragorn to come along. "And I told him of your skills, and of what you've done for the group while we were coming here.." 

"Yes?" Aragorn led Lhach into one of the empty box stalls at the end of the stable, stepping in as well to unsaddle the horse as Selinethas leaned on the side of the stall entrance. Done quickly, the saddle was passed outside the stall to be set on a rack, and Aragorn went to check the stall's hayrack. 

"He decided to let my vouch for you stand. They put you into the sixth eored." 

Aragorn straightened up so fast he smacked his head into the top of the hayrack, doubling over as a result with a grimace before turning to stare at Selinethas. "The sixth eored?" 

Selinethas chuckled, the rumbling sound filling the air. "Don't sound so surprised. You might've made it into the third or fourth, but they'd never seen you yet, so they went for the safer choice." He backed out of the stall doorway as Aragorn came out, and nodded at the basket of brushes across the aisle. "I'm in the sixth, as well. Try not to outdo me in every way, will you?" The last was delivered with a grin, which Aragorn returned as he came back with a stiff body brush and slipped back into the stall to brush off the saddle marks on Lhach's back. 

"I'll do my best." 

"You're a good man, Thorongil." And with that, Selinethas stepped away, leaving Aragorn alone in the stable with only the horses and the hay for company. 


	12. Part XII :: Rohan

"Figures that if you've got a horse that little, you'd've got a lighter sword, too." Selinethas hefted first his own blade, then Aragorn's, eyebrows shifting upward in surprise. "You'll need to get a heavier one from the armory. A spear, too - can you use one?" 

"I've some skill with the spear, yes," Aragorn assented with a short nod, reaching out to take his sword back and slide it back into the sheath at his belt. "The sword will do well enough, though. I shall keep mine." 

"King Thengel doesn't just want 'well enough,' Thorongil. He wants the best from Rohan, them as which're made here in Edoras." 

"It will do well enough," Aragorn repeated, a little more forcefully. Selinethas held up his hands in a placating gesture, shaking his head slightly. "Trust me." 

"Don't know why, but I do," Selinethas muttered good-naturedly. "Fine, then. I'll take your word on that. C'mon, we're going to the armory for spears now. _Standard_ spears," he said pointedly, grinning. With a snort of laughter, Aragorn strode off the practice courts with him, headed up to the top of the hill where the armory was. 

Two hours later, Aragorn realized just how much heavier human weapons were than elven ones in general, not just the swords. In his entire session on the field, he had not managed even once to hit the target with his spear, and every muscle in his right side seemed to ache simultaneously when he moved. Selinethas had no trouble at all hitting his mark on almost every shot, in contrast, and Aragorn wondered vaguely if that was the reason Men seemed so broad of body, compared to the slimness he associated with elves - weighted spear-throwing. 

He tried to keep his arm from shaking out of sheer exhaustion as he heaved the spear up to his shoulder to line up another throw at the target, which seemed to have crept further away as the hours had whiled past. And a hand clapped him on the shoulder - he dropped his spear, both out of surprise and due to the fact that his fingers seemed to have lost their ability to bend. Selinethas picked it up for him, pressing it into his left hand instead with a chuckle. "A bit tired?" 

"Just a bit," Aragorn agreed, rather stiffly. 

"Ready to go back? It's nearly sunset. Baths should be set out in the rooms by now." 

"--all right." 

"Come on," Selinethas said with a grin, beckoning Aragorn up toward the path back. "What? Let me guess - your brothers taught you what you knew with lighter spears that did 'well enough'." 

Aragorn could not remember a time when a single one of Elrohir's or Elladan's weapons broke, save that eventful day in the woods with the recurved bow, but he supposed that it wasn't really necessary to tell that. "You might say that." 

"Don't look so disappointed. I've seen bigger folk than you manage less with a spear, lightweight." 

"Lightweight?" Aragorn had the presence of mind to look indignant, at least. "You think I'm a lightweight?" 

"Anything lighter than that toy you call a horse is a lightweight, lad." 

Aragorn was too busy trying to get the right side of his body to cooperate in walking up the hill to think of a remark in return. By the time he got up to his room, his bath was - mercifully - already drawn and waiting inside, steaming faintly. He dropped into the water as soon as he had shed his clothes, and sank chin-deep in the hot bath until he rather fancied he could move his right hand and arm again. 

The last two weeks had not been so bad, in Edoras. Thengel King was a good man, and his men followed him willingly enough that Aragorn did not mistrust in the nobility of the monarch. The other men in the sixth eored had accepted him willingly enough, though he had received more than a few odd looks for not divulging his homeplace or his father's name; too, Lhach had been the butt of quite a few jokes in the other ranks and the stable, the "hobbyhorse" as many had dubbed him. But once drills had started the last week, the jokes had died down, and Aragorn did not care whether it was due to the other men actually seeing Lhach's ability (as well as his own) or if they were simply too tired from the work to bother with needless jibes. 

Selinethas, on the other hand, had been a veritable miracle. Aragorn wasn't quite sure what he would have done had the other man not been there to steer him from hall to hall, or to teach him the hand signals the men in the eoreds used during drills and the Rohirrim customs. Since Aragorn's first refusal, he had not asked for further information about his history, and yet in return he was more than willing to tell Aragorn of his own family and home. Aragorn never failed to appreciate the stories - they distracted him from the daily sting of homesickness that nagged at his heart, that which longed to return to Imladris and just accept that he would not wed the daughter of Elrond as long as he could stay with his brothers again. 

"Thorongil! Are you coming back out?" Selinethas's voice demanded from outside the door, punctuated by the thud of his fist on the wood. Aragorn sat up in the water, jarred out of his thoughts. "The food's ready." 

Aragorn paused long enough to scoop a handful of water onto his face, scrubbing faintly at the accumulated dirt before grabbing for the towel beside the basin. "Coming." 

------------------- 

_Year 2355 - winter_

"Rohirrim!" Lerebhon called, wheeling his bay mount in a tight circle. "We ride south!" 

Aragorn lifted his spear automatically, heeling Lhach into a settled canter at the side of the eored as they set off. He rode no more than a horse-length behind Lerebhon, the fourth eored's leader, himself, and was careful to maintain that position carefully - it had taken him all of the year and a half he had been in Thengel's service to advance that far, struggling up the hierarchy just behind Selinethas. 

The White Mountains loomed ahead, snow-capped spires breaking the clouds that speckled the darkening sky. The heavy pound of hooves set the crowning beat of the group, and Lhach willingly sped along with the rest of the horses with no further urging on Aragorn's part. There had been a report earlier that day of Orcs raiding and pillaging along the feet of the mountains, and the fourth eored had been sent out both as a patrol and to drive out the creatures. Already Aragorn could see a thin ribbon of smoke curling away into the air from over the crest of a hill, probably where the last attack had been. He wondered briefly how it was that he could see smoke that thin if it was that far away - Lerebhon apparently noticed as well, lifting his spear in the signal for the riders to stop. Aragorn pulled up Lhach sharply, leaning back momentarily with a sigh and a reach upward to adjust his helm. 

A moment's conference with two of the other riders at the head of the group, and Lerebhon's spear went up again - the riders were to fan out into a semicircle opening around the front, against the chance that they would come across any Orcs among the huge hills abounding around the mountains' bases. It was quick, quiet work for the Rohirrim, and after a moment they were heading forward again at a steady canter once more. Aragorn now rode in the first line, spear held at half-mast ahead of him, parallel to Lhach's shoulder. 

It was just as well, for over the next crest they plowed straight into a company of a hundred or so encamped Orcs, taking the creatures by surprise. 

Battle was upon them immediately - for all their disadvantage, the Orcs roused themselves to fight almost before the Rohirrim could launch their attack. Arrows whistled in the air - spears and swords tore flesh - the shrill cries of the horses, the clang of metal, the hiss and strangled roars of the Orcs melded into one long, continuous keen in the air as the Riders of Rohan cut a forced swath through the Orcs. 

Aragorn found himself beset by three Orcs before two were taken down by spears from behind him. The last stared malevolently at him even as it raised its weapon, Aragorn's spear aimed for its throat - Aragorn's thoughts rippled back to a long-ago story of elves and yrch and death, and wondered if this was what Elrohir had felt once-- 

and then the world dropped out from beneath him. 

Lhach abruptly stumbled and crashed to his knees. Aragorn hurtled over the horse's head and slammed into the ground with a crack of bone, dazed eyes barely clear enough to see the pair of black arrows buried in Lhach's chest. His spear clattered to the ground from nerveless fingers, and he found himself staring up at the leering face of an Orc with a blade held overhead - but then that blade, too, fell to the ground as the Orc staggered back, a Rohirrim arrow thudding through its gut. 

Aragorn threw himself out of the way as huge hooves pounded the ground beside his head, blindly grabbing for the discarded Orc-weapon on the ground as he lurched to his feet, slashed at the face of an approaching Orc. 

In a blur of movement, he was suddenly jerked off his feet, and he found himself atop another horse. The noise was fading into the night's obscurity with the diminishing rush of adrenaline, and he dimly realized that the Orcs already were dead; Lerebhon was shouting orders, the enemy corpses were being piled for burning, and those Rohirrim injured or killed were being taken back by a small escort out of the eored. Injured? He could feel pain, yes, a burning ache that was spreading all through his left side that seized up agonizingly whenever the horse beneath him or the rider in front of him moved. 

"Horse," he rasped, coughing and trying not to. "My horse?" 

Selinethas's voice carried easily back to him - it was Selinethas, of course, who else but he would be taking back Aragorn personally instead of just leaving him on one of the now-riderless horses to go back to Edoras? "Lhach's dead, Thorongil. Took a few arrows and threw you when he went down - you don't remember." The last was almost a question, but the big man apparently didn't want to look for answers, and Aragorn didn't supply them. "I'm sorry, lad." 

"He's dead?" 

"We'll find you another horse." 

Aragorn couldn't find the breath or the state of mind in which to answer - his chest hurt beyond anything he'd felt in recent memory, and he did not feel like forcing his tongue to unravel the pain also in his heart at having lost one of his last ties to Imladris. Rohan's horses were the finest of Mankind, but the horses of the elves were fleeting and soon forgotten - much like his own elven nature. The ride back to Edoras grated both on his body and his mind, and he was grateful to be taken to the healers in the relative cover of darkness. 

That night, he shifted uncomfortably on his bed, his side wrapped in yards of bandages in a vain attempt to assauge the pain of cracked ribs as he drained a mug of some foully bitter sleep-inducing tea. His head pounded, an ache settling behind his eyes, and he tried to ignore the stinging drops threatening to blur his vision. _I am no crying child..._ The wind had stilled outside his customarily opened window as if in deference to his loss, and the low croon of a bird outside faded to silence as he drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 


	13. Part XIII :: Pilgrim

It was easy enough to decline the offers of a new horse - one even from Thengel himself - with murmured negation and a shake of the head on the pretext of his disability. It wasn't entirely a lie. His broken ribs still hurt too much for him to do much else than walk, and he welcomed the excuse to stay away from stable duty for the first few days he was back on his feet. 

"Thorongil?" 

Aragorn started slightly, hand slipping from where it was polishing his sword; the blade jolted, slicing the thin polishing cloth nearly in half. Losing a horse in Rohan, it seemed, made one distinctly notorious, but Aragorn rather missed the relative quietude of anonymity. "Yes?" 

The man before him bowed slightly, and Aragorn vaguely recognized him from dress and face as one of the doorwardens at Meduseld. "My lord Thengel would have you come to him in the Golden Hall." 

A moment's hesitation, and Aragorn stood, pocketing the halved polishing cloth and sheathing his sword in one fluid movement. "I will go." 

The walk from the rider barracks to the Golden Hall was slow, silent - more than once, Aragorn caught the doorwarden sending a curious glance his way, only to return his gaze to the ground when he found out he had been noticed. Aragorn would have welcomed conversation to take his mind off the laborious uphill walk and the ache it caused in his ribs, but he was unsure of what the topic might turn to, and held his silence instead. The doorwarden left him at the steps mounting Meduseld, departing with another quick bow, and Aragorn trudged up the stairs with a faint sigh. 

He was allowed in with a quick nod from the guard standing outside the doors. The interior of the Hall proper was not as bustling as it had been when he had last been within, only a few men and women crossing through briskly with nods of greeting to him, which he returned. Nevertheless, high-set windows still streamed in banners of the noon sun, rays nearly opaque in their gold-brightness, and the old wood and stone seemed to glow in the light with antiquated luster. Thengel King was standing at one of the tables tucked into the dimmer corners of the hall, head low in inaudible conversation with the table's occupants, though when he noticed Aragorn's entrance he broke away courteously. 

"Thorongil," he said. "We meet again." 

"At your request, my lord." Aragorn bowed quickly, meeting Thengel's eyes as he straightened. "What is your will?" 

"First - I'd like to ask if you had reconsidered my offer of a horse. I know that you've only just lost yours-- No?" Aragorn shook his head. Thengel looked rather taken aback for a few seconds before continuing. "Well. No doubt you've also heard that there were several other men injured from the fourth eored. A rather unsuccessful scout party..." he trailed off, thumb tapping his chin thoughtfully. Aragorn waited a moment in silence, and cleared his throat slightly. "Ah, yes. You, I fear, were one of the least wounded of that particular group. Several of the others are still with the healers, even more from the third and sixth eored, and a few of my training masters have volunteered themselves into service with the Riders. Unfortunately, this leaves me short of men to train the younger recruits." 

"Yes, my lord?" 

Thengel hemmed and hawed for another moment while Aragorn stood, silent. "Ah. Hm. Yes, I was wondering if you were well enough to take on some of the younger recruits - not permanently, of course." 

"Take on some of the recruits?" Aragorn repeated dubiously. "My lord, are there not enough of the training masters' assistants to perform that duty?" 

"Right now, no," the King said, rather regretfully. "More of the men have joined the Riders, as of late - less would like to teach our sons the skills that they might do the same. I will not press you for an answer if your wounds still pain you." 

"No, my lord, I will do it," Aragorn put in after a second's thought. "What would you have me do?" 

"It is only temporary, yes... you would be taking on the last group of recruits - getting mounts for those who don't have any, basic weaponry," Thengel waved one arm in a generally all-encompassing gesture, "the sort." Aragorn nodded. "It starts tomorrow, then - at sunrise they will be in the stables. Thank you, Thorongil." 

Aragorn knew a dismissal when he heard one; he bowed with a murmured "My lord" and turned to leave. For the first time since his last hunt, he headed for the stables again, stopping outside the building in the waxing shadows beside it. The sounds and smells that drifted from within were familiar but now tugged at his heart, telling him to go back to Thengel and apologize, take on some other station at least for now... 

He blinked once, and stepped into the stable. 

His feet automatically took him to Lhach's stall - no, not Lhach's stall, it was now the residence of a lanky bay mare. She whickered low in her throat when he stopped in front of the stall, and he instinctively reached up to stroke the velveteen nose thrust in his face as she poked her head over the stall door. After a moment, he tore himself away with a frown, leaving the stall with a last pat to the horse within and striding to the end of the stable and the door that led to the second wing. 

Here were the horses that had only recently been brought in from the plains of Rohan - all had already been trained to accept bridle and saddle and obeyed the most rudimentary commands, but had yet to be conditioned to the close confines of Rohirrim eored formation or any of the battle training the warhorses were taught. Aragorn went down to every stall, noting what bits of personality he could pick up from a quick overview: this horse had only blown a snort in his direction, that horse had gone so far as to nip lightly at his sleeve during a pat. To his surprise, there were few chestnuts, but one had looked so like Lhach that he had been tempted to believe that it was. Instead, he had patted the horse only once and hurriedly moved on to the next stall. 

-------------------------------- 

Thengel, it turned out, had been rather generous in his detailing of Aragorn's duties - particularly in procuring horses for the new recruits who had none. Out of the nineteen boys who had shown up in the stables the next dawn, sleepy-eyed and silent, only two had told him that they already had mounts. Of the others, Aragorn placed a half-dozen on horses he thought would suit their riding abilities and personalities - and then was left with nine boys who were either too tired, too cold, or too apathetic to display any defining characteristics. He wasn't entirely sure how to assign horses to those. 

"All right - you, Hodleth? You're tall enough. Take out Stormskimmer, the grey down there. And you, go get that roan, his name's Winterlight. He's probably short enough for you.." 

It took nearly two hours to go through the laborious process of pairing boys with horses, getting each horse's tack, and getting each horse tacked up as well. By the time Aragorn had finished readjustinging the last horse's girth, his hands were stiff and half-numb with cold; the boys, ten- and eleven-year olds for the most part, were chilly and bored with standing around. He led them all down to the empty practice courts, and set them to work riding while carrying spears. After an hour and a half, when three of the boys had managed to drop their spears at least twice, he dismissed the whole group with orders to return the next day at dawn. 

Two months later, spring warmth was beginning to creep over Rohan, and Aragorn thought he might lose his sanity to the labors that training young boys to riderhood entailed. Out of his original group of nineteen, all but four had already been promoted into the higher levels. He was beginning to think that those four were severely incapacitated in some way that he couldn't see, or they were actually trying not to be promoted. 

"For the love of Rohan, Afinolas, lift your spear!" he shouted across the court. The head of the boy's spear was still, after the month of everyday training, wobbling closer and closer to his horse's head with every cantering stride. Wobble. Wobble. 

Thud! Aragorn wasn't sure if Afinolas had actually dropped his spear or not, but the weapon had fallen to smack the poor horse square between the ears. The horse, startled, reared and tossed his head with a sharp squeal - Afinolas toppled out of the saddle with all the grace of a rock. The boy and horse behind him reined in to a sharp halt, sending a spray of dirt and loose gravel from the court ground at Afinolas from behind. 

Aragorn cursed and hurried over toward the fallen boy, slowing slightly at the reminding twince of discomfort in his still-knitting ribs. When he reached him, Afinolas was already sitting up but not moving. "Afinolas? Are you all right?" 

"Fine, just fine," the thirteen-year old snapped, refusing to crane his head upward to meet Aragorn's eyes. "Just the worst rider in all the Riddermark, that's me." His horse, a dainty brown mare, wandered over to nose at his back. 

"Up on your feet and back in the saddle if you're all right," Aragorn said, offering a hand to the boy. Not a move, still. "You're not the worst rider in Rohan, Afinolas. I've seen worse. I used to be worse." 

"I can believe that," Afinolas retorted sharply. The other riders had approached, stopping their horses in a loose semicircle around Afinolas and Aragorn. "Not like you can be worse than me right now, right? You _used_ to be such a bad rider, you killed your own horse." 

A murmur of uneasy dissent came from the boys behind him, but Aragorn paid them no heed. His fists clenched involuntarily at his sides, and he struggled to keep his face expressionless, to keep his suddenly formed ire from spilling out into words. Afinolas was bitter that he was one of the oldest riders still in the last recruit group; Aragorn would give him no further reason to be so jaded. "I have no answer for that," he said evenly, at length. "Take your horses back to the stables - Hodleth, your horse is to be turned out in the second paddock tonight. We continue tomorrow." 

He turned and strode away before his control could break, leaving the group behind in the slanting midafternoon sun. 

A hand caught his shoulder as he passed through one of the winding corridors that led through the barracks, heading for the open terrace behind the building. "Thorongil? Something wrong?" 

"Nothing." 

Selinethas let him go, but followed him out to the terrace. "That expression on your face will mean 'nothing' the day my horse turns into an Orc." 

"It's not of your concern." 

The bigger man backed off the subject at the clipped tone of Aragorn's voice. "Right, it's not. You may want to make it your concern to calm down, though. There is a visitor asking for you in the Hall." 

Aragorn blinked, frustration and turmoil dropped aside for a few seconds. "A visitor?" 

"Aye - he knew you well enough by all but name. He and the king are waiting." 

A hand rubbed tiredly over his face, and Aragorn nodded with a sigh. "I'll go, then. Thank you, Selinethas." 

It was shorter going back to the Golden Hall. He took the route outside, around the barracks, andbroke into a slight jog as he neared the steps mounting Meduseld. A visitor? He didn't doubt that he could have been tracked, but there was no one he knew who would come to Rohan to find him after so long. He sighed again, and stepped into the hall in relief at its relative warmth. 

Thengel was seated at his throne; beside him, a man with grey hair and greyer robes had pulled up a chair, conversing quietly. Aragorn stopped before he could hear what they were saying, bowing slightly. The stranger rose from his chair, and Aragorn was rather surprised to be looking _up_ at him. For a brief moment, he only blinked up at the knowledge he could all but see, tangible, in the man's light eyes - and then he remembered that Thengel was also sitting there, looking expectant. 

He broke away with another short bow, clearing his throat. "My lord." 

"Thorongil, I assume you already know--" Thengel gestured toward the stranger, who had not yet made a move to sit back down. "Gandalf Greyhame." 

"You may recall me as Mithrandir," the man said, finally settling back down into his chair. Aragorn blinked - _Mithrandir? The Mithrandir? The grey wizard from elflore?_ "Or you might not - I only visited your home recently, and you were not there." 

"I've heard your name spoken often." 

Those eyes twinkled with some inner amusement. "Your brothers ask when you will return." 

"You know my brothers?" 

"Indeed, and many others beside." 

Thengel interrupted with a cough. "Thorongil, Gandalf has come offering to go with you back to your home. Er-- wherever that may be." He paused for a few seconds, clearly expecting one of the two to supply an exact location, but neither did. "I would be willing to let you go, if you wish to." 

Aragorn took a step back, blinked. "But - the recruits--" 

"I told you that was a temporary position." Thengel shifted on the throne. "You've done your job already, Thorongil. I'm giving you a leave of duty." 

Aragorn's hands flexed impulsively, and he stilled them on the hilt of his sword. "For how long?" 

"Indeterminately." 

Gandalf watched, amused, as Aragorn gaped. The expression didn't look to fit on the young man's face. "My lord--" 

"Provisions are being readied as we speak, for Gandalf has said that he goes in some haste, and I have other matters too that press on my time. Will you go with him?" 

"Ah--" Aragorn shot a sidelong glance at the Istar, swallowing hard. "Yes, I will, but--" 

"Good, then. Go and inform any that you might need to. Theoden, come here." For the first time, Aragorn noticed the little boy sitting at a nearby table, feet dangling off the floor. Now the king's son slid down to the ground, trotting over obediently. "Theoden, go and tell the cooks to send Thorongil's and Gandalf's packs to the central gate.""Yes, father." And off Theoden scampered, leaving a rather bemused Aragorn with Gandalf and Thengel. 

"I--" Aragorn stopped himself, trying to sort through his thoughts. He had known of Thengel's ability to make quick decisions, but.. well, he had thought that would be on the battlefield, not within Edoras. And most especially not about sending off one of his Riders to lands unknown. "Thank you, my king." But he wasn't entirely sure if he was thanking the king of the Mark for his sudden freedom, or a sudden demotion. 

------------------------ 

Dusky eve crept over the sky, dark clouds drifting to eclipse the overbright moon like nameless shadows that had lost their owners. The air was blessedly still, only the occasional gentle spring wind wisping at the pair's backs as they trekked onward. 

"Well, I suspect he also wanted you out of Edoras since some boy's father was becoming rather angry that his son had been 'mistreated' in one of your training sessions--" 

"Afinolas," Aragorn sighed, hefting his pack again. 

"It all worked out." 

They walked in companionable silence for a time, until the last vestiges of gold that had tinged the horizon had faded altogether. Aragorn found his fingers idly tracing over the star-shaped gem that lay pinned at his collar - a keepsake from Selinethas, when he had told the older Rider, that had come with a reminder to come back sometime soon. Aragorn had promised to. 

"We're not really going back to Imladris, are we." It was a statement, not a question; Gandalf sent him a shrewd look before breaking into a low chuckle. 

"No, we're not. It is not often that I go to follow the Bruinen. We go to Mirkwood - I must speak with Thranduil. You're free to go back to Imladris, if you wish." 

"That's all right. I will go with you." 

Gandalf smiled, readjusted his hat - they walked on, leaving behind the flickering lights of dim lanterns in Edoras's windows. 


	14. Part XIV :: Hope

Aragorn wasn't quite sure how it had been done, but Gandalf had somehow managed to gain his trust in a paltry two days. He didn't recall ever having given his trust so freely (excepting his childhood meeting with his brothers). Another day of trekking through Rohirrim plains, and when the clouds had turned to grey, heavy rain, their conversation had stopped in favor of thought and working at pulling their feet out of the mud. 

_The eyes,_ he finally decided. A crack of thunder pealed as if in confirmation, reverberations thrumming lightly through the ground beneath his feet. The old wizard's body was old, seemingly frail - but his eyes held knowledge that was older still, infinitely discerning, and sometimes there was a sadness in those eyes that Aragorn had only previously beheld in the eyes of elves. 

Right now, though, those eyes were hidden beneath the brim of Gandalf's stare-worthy old hat, and Aragorn did not feel like thinking on what he made of the elves. The rain was unpleasant enough to steal his attention, in any case. 

Just as suddenly as it had started, the rain trickled and drizzled to a stop - with that, the sun struggled forth again, sending sticky-warm humidity gusting after the showers. The only thing Aragorn found himself grateful for was that there were no flies. 

"You know of Thranduil's son, do you not?" 

Gandalf's voice interrupted Aragorn while he was trying to pull his foot out of a particularly deep rut of mud without leaving his boot behind. He looked up - the wizard was standing clear of the rut, watching amusedly. And finally the mud relinquished his foot _and_ boot, both pulling forth from its depths with a loud glop. "The Greenleaf? Aye, I know him." 

Those eyes twinkled again in mirth as they started walking. "Your brothers were most upset that he had seen you when they had not." 

Aragorn did not answer for another few moments. When he did, it was to ask, "When did you go to Imladris?" 

"Some time ago. Not long before I came to Rohan." 

"You saw my brothers, and Elrond." Gandalf nodded, and Aragorn sidestepped a mud-filled dip in the ground. "My mother?" There was no response, and he peered over at Gandalf with a slight frown and a peremptory, "Gandalf?" 

The old wizard prodded a stone out of his path with his staff. "Your mother was not in Rivendell, Aragorn. She returned to her people in Eriador not long after you left. She only stayed in Imladris in the first place because of you." 

"She is still well, though?" 

"The last I saw her, yes." 

Aragorn lapsed back into silence again, turning his eyes down to the mud in his path. In the distance, thunder tolled once more, its rumble distant and fading, but there was no rain to follow. 

-------------- 

Mirkwood loomed, oppressive and dark against Aragorn's recent memories of Rohan's golden grasses. The rain had followed their path north, reaching even to the heart of the forests; the air within the trees was cool and clammy, and Aragorn wondered if the Bruinen's annual snowmelt had flooded the river's banks near Imladris yet. 

Gandalf had been all but silent, too, for the past few days, and Aragorn had made no move to break the silence. It was an easy sort of quiet, and now in the wood, it seemed as if the sound of a leaf falling would echo harshly, let alone a voice. Even the mere thought of noise was alien. He found himself searching the trees for scouts, and seeing nothing but dark leaves and darker wood. 

They reached the palace without a single sentry stopping them on their path. He didn't know if that was a good sign, or a bad one. 

Gandalf left him in the emptied central hall with a murmured order to stay there and await his return. Aragorn nodded, watching the old wizard stride off down a darkened corridor. 

Long moments passed, and he was abruptly aware of movement behind him - some whisper in the shadows, some darting shimmer at the corner of his eye. He whirled, and was greeted with the sight of an elf. 

No, two elves. 

He gaped. "What are you doing here?" 

Elladan snorted in amusement as Elrohir pulled Aragorn into a fierce hug, laughing outright at the man's still-surprised expression. "We are doing perfectly well, Estel," he drawled with a grin, "thank you for asking - though it can imagined that your manners haven't." 

"As if he could be expected to keep up with that, living with the Rohirrim for three years," Elrohir laughed, releasing Aragorn only to hold him out at arm's length and give him a rough shake by the shoulders. "If you ever, ever leave home like that again--" He drew the man back in for another embrace. 

"You'll what, strangle him to death by breaking all of his ribs like that?" 

Aragorn's dumbfounded shock was quickly wearing away into amazement, and a sudden rush of joy. "Enough, enough!" he cried laughingly, gently prying Elrohir off of him. "What are you doing here?" 

"We've been relegated to messenger duty for the next few years," Elladan explained, accepting the quick hug Aragorn gave him. "Shift rotation, if you will." 

"A mundane demotion, if you will," Elrohir added in the exact same tone as Elladan had used, garnering a mock-glare and a light swat on the back of his head from Elladan. 

"Ai, what this world has come to when I am brother to a mere pair of messengers!" And Aragorn found himself slipping between the elvish tongue and Westron, in his laughter, and to the twins' merriment. 

"Yes, but the two greatest messengers in all of Imladris--" 

"Nay, in all elvendom in Arda!" Elrohir interjected, eyes gleaming with good humor. 

"The two slowest, most bumbling messengers of the Age--" Aragorn was interrupted with Elrohir good-naturedly cuffed his ear, face breaking into a wicked grin. 

"Insolent elfling," Elladan chuckled. 

"Insolent _human_," Elrohir corrected him, before Aragorn stiffened slightly - the elf blinked, seemed to realize what he'd said. "Oh- Estel, I didn't--" 

"Human, elf, or goblin, he would still be our insolent little elfling of a brother," Elladan said quietly. A touch of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth as Aragorn sent him a swift glance, eyes dark with gratitude - and hope. 

"Of course he is," Elrohir was saying as he looped an arm around Aragorn's shoulders, the tension in the air dispelled. "Though I suspect he's more goblin than human or elf." 

"Ah, Aragorn," Gandalf sighed, striding back into the hall, "I leave you alone for but a few minutes and look what you get yourself into." 

"Mithrandir!" Elladan and Elrohir both turned simultaneously to see the wizard, Elladan greeting him with a bow and a rare grin while Elrohir bestowed Gandalf with a hug not quite as hard as the one he had given Aragorn. "We knew you'd find him," Elrohir enthused with a laugh. 

"So you _were_ sent out to find me," Aragorn put in, though with no rancor. 

The old wizard smiled, extracting himself from Elrohir and walking toward another hallway. All three followed him in a small cluster. "Not so much to find you and bring you back as just to make sure you were still well." 

"Not that we doubted that you could take care of yourself," Elrohir added hastily. 

"As I was saying," Gandalf rumbled, with a chiding glance back at Elrohir, "I have brought you anyway. My conference with Thranduil is done." 

Aragorn blinked, surprised at the brevity of the 'conference' - most of Elrond's had taken days. But then he remembered the King of Mirkwood's famed brusqueness, and held his tongue as Gandalf continued. 

"His son Legolas has gone with a party of elves on a hunting trip, so I fear you may not have as much companionship as you'd hoped for, Aragorn--" Elrohir made a vaguely indignant noise, until Elladan elbowed him in the ribs. "We will stay for another two days before leaving again." 

"Leaving again?" Elladan finally spoke up, glancing from Gandalf to Aragorn. "Estel, I thought you were coming back with us." Aragorn stopped; the twins did as well, leaving Gandalf to step silently away within a moment. The man looked from Elladan to Elrohir, gaze then dropping to the ground. "Estel?" 

"My name is Aragorn." 

"Aragorn, then--" Elrohir looked anxiously at Elladan, at Aragorn whose gaze was still at their feet. "No matter. You're coming home with us?" There was an undercurrent of a plea in his voice, and Aragorn wanted to close his hearing to it as he had blocked the sight of their faces. 

Elladan's voice came next, softer and sadder. "He isn't." 

Aragorn jerked his head up - his eyes met Elladan's, and he could almost feel the sudden sorrow that coursed through the elf. Sorrow, understanding - "I can't," he whispered, previous joy dissolving into a cold knot of misery. 

A hint of a smile touched Elladan's mouth. "I know," he murmured, and turned away. 

"What do you mean, you know?" Elrohir would not turn away, and for all the schooled inexpression on his face, his voice shook with disbelief and a hurt that ran nearly to betrayal. "Of course you're coming home, aren't you, Aragorn?" 

"I can't," Aragorn repeated, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder to see if Gandalf had come back. "Not--" He stopped, unsure of what he would say if he went on - unsure even of what it was that made him refuse. 

Elladan picked up where Aragorn faltered to silence. "It's all right, brother," he sighed; it wasn't clear whether it was Aragorn he spoke to, or Elrohir. He looked toward Aragorn, smile almost wistful. "We will still wait for you in Imladris. Aragorn." He turned away again, and stepped quietly down the hallway, disappearing around a corner. Aragorn watched him go, then turned a beseeching look on Elrohir. The elf's expression had gone stony and closed in a particular manner that the man had never seen before. 

"Little brother," Elrohir breathed into the silence after a moment, as Aragorn looked to the ground again. "I'm sorry." 

But when the man looked up, the hall was empty. 

The next morning, he went down to the stables to find that Elladan and Elrohir had left the previous night. And when he went back to his room, he found a note slid under the door that he had missed before. Elrohir's neat script displayed a single word. 

_Hope._


	15. Part XV :: Shadow

_Trees are burning. Smoke rises on the wind, heavy and oily with the scent of things never meant to burn. He cannot stop it. _

Silver bark and golden leaves; fire in the heights of the mellyrn. Black smoke lifting to black skies. And Lorien lies hidden in shadow and flame, no longer the light of the elves. 

From there, flames race down the dry bed of the Bruinen, bringing Rivendell's birches to soot behind them. Imladris burns, and Imladris, too, falls. A ship flees its harbor, sleek sails dark with dirt and ash, and he sees Elrohir lying on its deck. Elladan. Elrond. Gilraen. 

Arwen. 

Above the smoke, a dark eye begins to smolder with kindling fire. He hears its laughter. Hopeless_, it screams to him, beckons to him._ Hopeless. 

Aragorn woke with his knife in his hand, staring at the sky. It was dark, but clear; the wind was high, chasing bluish clouds past the moon and dimming stars in sheets of almost-shadow. Gandalf sat beside the remains of a cooking fire, his hat pulled low over his face, and he looked over when Aragorn sat up. 

"Something is wrong?" 

His gaze on the fire's embers, Aragorn shook his head. Curls of smoke still rose from the coals. "It was only a dream." 

"Dreams often show us what we will not let ourselves see." Gandalf leaned down to sweep another handful of dirt over the coals as Aragorn began to pack his bedroll. "But not always. Nothing is certain, and dreams least of all. --ah, look. The sun rises." 

The sun did rise, and the wind rose with it until Aragorn chose to suffer the indignity of tying his hair into a mess of half-knotted elf-braids rather than keep it whipping into his face with the breeze. As he was twisting one of the last braids, Gandalf pulled off his own hat and looked at him -- Aragorn was utterly mortified for a moment at the notion that Gandalf might have thought to offer his hat, but the wizard only dusted off the brim before putting it back on, with a hint of a smile. "Did the wind never blow in Imladris while you were a child, that you tie your hair so dreadfully when a breeze comes?" 

Aragorn could say nothing for a moment, and found himself laughing instead. 

They had reached the northernmost bounds of Ithilien by the time the sun had begun to sink. "We should stop before it is too dark," Aragorn said, casting a long look over the land and grey stone. Gandalf only walked on -- faster, if anything. "Mithrandir?" 

"It would be unwise to stay in Ithilien longer than we must," the wizard said at length, still moving, and Aragorn found himself hurrying to keep up. _Unwise?_ He looked over his shoulder with a frown, hand settling with the comfort of familiarity to the hilt of his sword. This haste was not usual for Gandalf, and he found himself growing uneasy. "There is darkness here that I would not linger for." 

"Darkness?" Aragorn thought of flame and smoke again, but Gandalf only shook his head sharply. 

"The Nazgul." 

"I remember the name, but no more." 

"From Elrond's books, no doubt." Gandalf turned his head to see Aragorn nod. "If you do not remember it, I will not tell you of them now. You have time enough to learn of other things first." 

As the sun finally faded beneath the mountains to the distant west, the sense of unease deepened. Ephel Duath loomed, seemingly closer in the darkness, and Aragorn found himself asking questions to keep the heavy silence of the night at bay. "Why do we pass through Ithilien if it lies in the shadow?" 

"Because Ithilien, at least, lies on the edge of the shadow, not at its heart." 

"And because it is the quickest way to Minas Tirith?" 

"That also." 

"Are there such few animals even here, that it is so silent?" 

"Aragorn, for all you've been to battle and back, you chatter as if you were a child. No, don't glare at me-- I know that this place weighs on one's spirits. But learn to listen when there is darkness, instead of talking." There was the thud of Gandalf's staff landing on stone. "Your talk has distracted me. We need to turn west -- we have come too close to the mountains." 

They walked into the dawn. Birdsong piped as the clouds began to tint pink and gold, and Aragorn smiled as he heard Gandalf humming under his breath. They came to the ruins of Osgiliath near noon, and once they had passed the garrison the White City stood miles before them, stark against the drab stone of the Emyn Arnen. And as they approached, Minas Tirith rose higher and higher in their view, white banners flapping as the lazy breeze stirred. 

It took some time before Aragorn realized that the steward's hall was, indeed, at the pinnacle of the city, and that he would have to walk there. "How long would you say it is, going around the city to the top?" 

Gandalf looked askance at him, but not unkindly, and his eyes twinkled. "Far enough for you to stretch your legs, I fear." 

Aragorn was preparing some witty comeback (he was sure he could think of one, given enough time) when the sound of distant hoofbeats caught his ear. He stopped, turning, and saw a group of horses and riders from toward the river; his grip on his sword tightened again, but at the horses' speed he soon saw the standard of a white horse: Rohirrim. They had turned as well, slowing as they neared Gandalf and Aragorn until they came to a halt, fanning around the two in a great ring of snorting, helmeted horses. 

"Thorongil?" one of the riders said, dismounting. Selenithas pulled off his helmet, looking incredulous. "What have you done to your hair?" 


	16. Part XVIa: White City

This is for my lovely correspondent and sometimes-sounding-board Vin, who demanded that I go back and fill in more bits of Aragorn's past. ^^ I've added a new (and extremely short) bit to Part II: Breakfast (third chapter) and to Part VII: Midsummers (chapter eight). Nothing drastically plot-changing, and certainly nothing necessary to the story. But for those who want to read them: enjoy! 

----------------------------- 

There was a low murmur in the group as a few spears were lowered; a few of the riders who recognized Aragorn as well nodded their greetings, but stayed astride their horses even as Selenithas grabbed Aragorn into a rough hug. "You didn't say you were going to Minas Tirith!" 

"I didn't know I was going to Minas Tirith," Aragorn admitted, grinning despite himself as he stepped back from Selenithas. "Ah -- my companion, Gandalf Greyhame." Gandalf touched the brim of his hat at the introduction, nodding toward Selenithas. "Gandalf, Selenithas. --What are you doing here? Playing messenger?" 

The man let out a rueful sigh. "Sadly. Actually, he has the message--" He gestured toward one of the riders. "You remember Cerenol." 

"I remember." 

"We're his escort. Too risky these days, sending a lone rider any distance." 

Thengel's caution was laudable, Aragorn thought, particularly in days when one of the Istari preferred to hurry through a pass rather than face the possibility of shadow. "I'll find you when we get there, then?" 

"Trying to get away from me already, lad?" Selenithas's eyes glinted in amusement, not too unlike Gandalf's. 

"What?" 

"Nonsense. I'll walk with you, it's short enough." The rest of the group backed away and dispersed at Selenithas's dismissive wave, and the trio began walking again, Gandalf watching Aragorn and humming softly under his breath. "Surely you haven't been just walking from Rohan all this time?" Aragorn shook his head, bemused and more unsettled by the sudden arrival of his old friend than he'd have liked. The rohir fell silent for a moment, recognizing Aragorn's habitual reticence -- and came up with, after a pause, "Then you must tell me what befell your hair. Did a pack of goblins come upon you and try to rip it off?" 

There came a snort in response, then, "Do you really want to know?" 

"If it's too long a story, we could always walk slower." 

Gandalf chuckled, and Aragorn even managed a half-grin. "Well -- we were in Ithilien..." 

-------------- 

"No, it's quite all right," Gandalf said when they reached the lowest pavilion of Minas Tirith. Aragorn had turned away from Selenithas, following the wizard instead, and now stopped. "I'm quite capable of delivering the message myself, my boy." Aragorn startled at the familiarity, and Gandalf suppressed a smile. "Go. If I have need of you, I will find you." 

As they walked toward the stables, Selenithas cast a curious look back at the retreating wizard. "Is he a relative?" 

"Gandalf?" 

"No, my horse. Of course Gandalf." 

"He's a friend," Aragorn said slowly, pulling the stable door open as Selenithas led his horse in. "He... my brothers speak most highly of him." 

"Hm," was all the rohir said in response from within a stall. Like much of the rest of Minas Tirith, the stables were built upwards and not out; the box had barely enough space for a horse to turn, but at one end of the aisle a railless stair led to a great loft set above the stalls, walls lined with saddle racks and shelves built as high as a man could reach. Built over the opposite stalls was another loft stacked with militarily-neat sheaves of hay, bound in rough string. Narrow slats of windows ran lengthwise down the outside of the stalls. "Quite the odd fellow, isn't he." 

Aragorn set himself to cleaning, fetching a broom from the loft and absently sweeping down the stone floor. "Sometimes." 

"Ah. Only sometimes." And Selenithas emerged from the stall, latching it behind him before he thudded up the side steps to the loft. The sound of his boots against the wood were unexpectedly loud in the relative quiet of drowsing horses, and it wasn't until he had put his horse's tack on an empty rack that he called down, "So you're staying in Gondor, the both of you?" 

"No." He swept the last of the straggling horsehair and dust out the stable door before bounding up the stairs to replace the broom. "Gandalf doesn't seem the sort to linger, and I suppose it is my duty to go with him since he did ask me to." 

"He did?" 

"When I left. Rohan," Aragorn elaborated, as much for himself as for Selenithas's benefit. He had, it seemed, left too many places behind him to keep them easily in order. "It's not as if there's so much I could do here." 

Selenithas looked up from polishing the bridle slung over his arm. "If you wanted, you could return to the Mark. Thengel would never turn down a rider." 

Aragorn smiled thinly. "I've no horse to take me back." 

The Rider's expression softened. "Fair enough." He slid the bridle onto the front of a saddle rack, arranging the reins above it. "What I said still stands, though. Should you ever want to return home." 

"I won't forget." 

Outside, the amassing clouds overhead thickened slowly, and thunder boomed in the distance. Somewhere in the city, a raindrop fell. 


	17. Part XIVb :: White City

"Gandalf!" Aragorn skirted a group of women who were setting up a small booth against the inside of the city wall as he spotted a familiar grey head above the others ahead, and he broke into longer strides as he fought to catch up. A pair of children ran giggling before him and he nearly stumbled, catching himself before he fell as he hurried on. "Mithrandir!" Gandalf stopped then, turning to look back as Aragorn stepped around another few people -- indeed the entire city seemed to be milling along the lowest levels, propping up silver festival flags and cloth tarps stretched from the walls. Outside the gate, something of a minor arena had been erected, pairs of men rolling out great stones to mark the boundaries of a ring. A feel of good cheer ran through the amassed people, but the crowd made for a painstakingly long, sidling trip for Aragorn to finally reach the wizard. "Where are you going?" 

"I am going to leave word with the smiths, and from there Ecthelion has provided me with horse and food enough to get to Isengard with haste." Gandalf moved with a brisk ease that Aragorn momentarily envied; people parted before the Istar almost unwittingly, but they lent him no such office. He was jostled roughly back as a man rushed by with an armful of polished helmets. "The Order holds a council in six days, and I would not be absent." 

"A council," Aragorn repeated, shouldering aside someone as he tried to stay beside Gandalf. "How long will it last?" 

"That does not concern you. You are to stay in Gondor," said Gandalf, veering sharply toward a dark doorway with the insignia of a smith carved into the stone frame. 

"What?" He ducked into the forge after Gandalf only to encounter a smoky wave of heat; he backed out again, shaking his head, and waited until the old wizard came back out. "You can't mean to leave me here!" 

"You are not a child, Estel!" Gandalf said sharply in Sindarin, and Aragorn pulled up abruptly. "Aragorn. I did not take you away from Rohan to the end that you would follow my path till the end of your days. I have need to leave, and to leave alone, just as you have great need to stay. You will do well here, I promise you. Everything will become clear to you upon my leave." 

"I thought we were to return to Imladris," Aragorn fumbled, glancing up at Gandalf with a desperate brand of hope. To be alone in a city of strangers.. Even Selenithas and the other rohirrim had left two days since. But Gandalf fixed him with a knowing, almost reproving look, and at length Aragorn was the first to drop his gaze. 

"You know it is not your time to return." He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and looked up to Gandalf again. "Heed me. Do not give your true name in the city and do not show undue confusion, but do all in your power to aid the men of Gondor. Take them as your own people." The hand lifted, and he stood motionless as the grey-clad Istar turned away and walked down the winding road toward the stable. 

It was not until he saw the swiftly-moving form of the wizard and horse dwindle into the approaching dark that he moved away from the forge, and someone beckoned for his aid in pegging a banner to the gate. 

----------------------------- 

The morning was still grey and damp when the trumpets of the city began to sound. Aragorn sat up in alarm, still half-asleep; the noise grated on his ears like a call to arms, and he rubbed a hand over his face with a tired sigh as he realized that it -- wasn't. 

His room, barely more than a closet with a cot in the patrol-house closest to the gate, had a single shuttered window, and as he crossed the floor to open it, someone began shouting outside. People were moving already despite the dimness of dawn, and Aragorn pulled the shutters closed before he leaned out his door to catch the nearest passerby by the elbow. "What is this?" 

The woman, slight of frame with dark eyes and hair, pulled away impatiently. "'Tis the day of the recruit. The summer games, you know. You'd best get outside quickly if you want to find a good spot to watch from." 

Fifteen minutes found him dressed and outdoors, wandering toward the gate -- the partially-marked arena of the day before had been roughly turned into a raked space similar to Rohan's great practice field. Even as the sun rose, people gathered and gossiped at the edges of the ring, laying out benches that seemed to find themselves filled before they were settled on the ground. 

"A pint of the old Druadan brew says that Cheteyne's boy makes it into Eanil's riders, what do you say?" Aragorn heard from one woman nearby before his arm was grabbed and he was pulled bodily toward the racks of hanging swords and spears that had been dragged out. "Here, lad, you've a sword?" a voice grated from behind him, and he could only nod, bewildered, before he was propelled toward the spears. "Take one, then, there's a lad-- Arconnal, we've got another one for the spears!" 

Buffeted back and forth by a series of gauntleted hands, Aragorn eventually found himself within the ring looking out, surrounded by the unfamiliar faces of Minas Tirith, some cheering and other shouting their discontent. He could smell the mugs of flat ale being distributed among the crowd, and reached out with one hand to stop another boy from falling as he too was pushed into the ring. "Are they always this -- rough?" he asked, raising his voice to be heard. 

"What, the officers?" The youth straightened with a grin, brushing floppy brown hair out of his face. "Most like, they are. You're in for spears first, too?" 

"So it would seem." Aragorn looked down at the spear in his hand, and then more dubiously at the squared targets being positioned partway across the field. 

"Y'see how they're putting those hardly midway down the ring?" The boy nodded toward the targets, and Aragorn obligingly looked as well, stepping aside to let a few more pass behind him. "That's new, this year. Last year, there were a few folk as missed the targets but the spears nearly hit the people behind them. I'm thinking that's why I wasn't picked then." He lifted his spear with another crooked grin, tossing it from hand to hand. "Figure I won't do it again, seeing as I've been practicing for months now. I'm Riesel, son of Remies." Another flashing grin. "You're new to Minas Tirith?" 

Aragorn looked out at the crowd, saw them parting for some figure at the back. "In a sense." The noise began to fade, and he added in a lower tone, "My name is Thorongil." Then the trumpets roared again, and he fell silent as Ecthelion stepped onto an ancient-looking (and portable, Aragorn noted) wooden dais at the far end of the ring. 

"Children of Gondor!" he cried, hands lifted. "Another day of the recruit is upon us, and another day of the summer games. Our sons have once again come willingly to test their skill, to test each other, and to find among them who will best serve Gondor under the guidance of our seven beloved captains!" The crowd rose again in a cheer as a group of men fanned out around the dais stepped up behind the steward as their names were called. "Diuln. Medirren. Coranril. Ierandir. Sadef. Theriet. Eanil. 

"But I will speak no more; the day is already well upon us, and it will go longer still before our captains have chosen their new men. To the first match!" 

While Ecthelion had spoken, some half-dozen of the officers had been moving through the group within the ring, pulling some forward, others back. Aragorn found himself pushed forward again, tugged into a line with some ten other men facing the targets and, beyond those, the dais; he followed their lead in bowing to the steward. 

The other men had already thrown their spears by the time he had risen from his bow, and the crowd was startlingly quick to change from the ragged cheers for those who had struck their targets to a less-ragged chant of 'Throw, throw'. An officer at the end of the line shouted, "Hurry up, there! We haven't got all day!" After a blank moment, Aragorn too collected himself before loosing his spear; his Rohirric training served him well, and the point buried itself at the center of his target with hollow thunk audible even over the sudden burst of cheers. 

The ringing of raucous, human approval remained in his ears long after he was pulled toward the other side of the arena, a longbow thrust into his hands. Elfsong was sweet and haunting, but this wild, impulsive notion of applause was something mortal and fleeting. And suddenly, aiming his first shot toward a new target, Aragorn laughed. 

They were cheering for him. 

--------------------------------- 

It wasn't until the sun had broken through the clouds, fierce and almost-white, that the games were put to a temporary end for the recruits and the spectators to eat and rest. Aragorn found himself, upon leaving the ring after two more shooting rounds and another spear-throwing, the object of some approval -- and more appraisal. 

Beside him stood Riesel, who was busy splitting his attention and animated chatter between both Aragorn and an exasperated-looking woman to his side. "Res, you of all people should know that I wasn't aiming for the people -- hey, hey, Thorongil!" Aragorn looked up again. "This is my sister, Reslin--"

"--who is very, very capable of introducing herself?" Reslin finished drily but with a smile, inclining her head respectfully toward Aragorn. Riesel snorted with laughter, moving off after one of the women bearing trays filled with mugs of ale. "My brother is of the opinion that your skill with a bow is skill enough to drive my courtesy out of me, as it appears to have done to him."

"I would little trust that opinion over your word, my lady." Aragorn took a hunk of meat and bread from a passing tray, and Reslin did the same but with a defter hand than his; she was taller than Riesel by perhaps a hand's width, leaner and lankier than Gondor's fashion dictated with an unnatural swift grace that spoke more of practiced movement than instinctual. She shared her brother's brown hair and gray eyes, but there was a gracious severity in her manner that he did not have.

"You talk like you know what you're saying." But when Aragorn looked at Reslin again, she was still smiling. "You are not from the city."

"I come from Rohan." 

"And where does one of the riders of Rohan learn to use a longbow?" The low voice came not from Reslin, but from behind Aragorn. Its speaker stepped forward -- a short man but heavily built, with gray streaks pulled through dark hair and a faded scar down the left side of his face. The tilt of Reslin's head in greeting to him was deeper than it had been to Aragorn.

"My brothers are more skilled in archery than many of the Rohirrim," Aragorn answered. "They are the ones who taught me what I know." 

"They did not come with you to Gondor?" Aragorn shook his head. "Hm. What is your name?" 

"Thorongil." 

"Thorongil of Rohan." The man paused, rubbing at his cleft chin as Reslin slipped away. "I could use another archer, even one who shoots like you do. A bow like that -- a man could say you killed an elf and took it off him," he chuckled. "Your spear-work isn't bad, though. Would you be willing to serve with my men?"

Aragorn was caught rather off-guard by the sudden offer -- he had expected more of a critique, as Elladan might have given, or the jovially one-sided conversation that would have come from Selenithas. The abruptness of this whole city was unsettling. "Er -- yes." _Why not?_

"Very good." The man nodded his approval, turning away. "Thorongil of Rohan. Hm. The men will gather at the west gatehouse in four days at dawn to be equipped and split for training. If you have need of me before then, ask for Sadef."


End file.
